


I Will Love With Urgency

by Cinderscream



Category: Papillon (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, M/M, but it turns to fluff pretty soon, flashbacks and memories galore, i attempt to write smut in the final chapter, if i succeed is up to you dshghg, lots of prosey metaphors i'm so sorry, they spend forever trying to find themselves but they get there, this baby can hold so much flower language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2020-07-22 20:17:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderscream/pseuds/Cinderscream
Summary: Dega doesn't know what to do with his dreams of someone else's life. Papi doesn't know how to stop running.





	1. As the moon hung proud and white, you would have loved it here tonight

**Author's Note:**

> on god i'm gonna put more fics in the papillon tag if it kills me

The sun bleeds across the sky, red blending into orange into pink, dipped in the blue of dusk, stars gleaming faintly at the fringes of the encroaching night. Louis watches the sun dip a little further into the horizon before slipping back inside, shivering slightly at the brisk breeze that chills the air. It’s spring strolling into summer, but the nights are still rather cool and Louis’ found that his immune system isn’t particularly good at warding off illness. He locks the door behind him, feeling wonderfully blank, his thoughts drifting from the growth of his garden to the watercolors he wants to use to paint tomorrow’s dawn, never once settling on any one thing. 

It’s nice, to be distracted as he performs his evening rituals. It’s with that same haze that he washes the few dishes left in the sink, as he showers and brushes his teeth, slips on his cotton pajamas and slips into his bed, small, firm and comfortable. As his eyes droop with sleep, Louis hopes he doesn't dream. 

He should be used to not getting what he wants by now, and yet-

_His throat is parched, scraped sandpaper rough by the scorch of the sun and the skin of his palms are torn up, sticky with sweat and drying blood, the back of his neck prickling sharply under the shade of his straw hat, though whether it’s from the heat or the eyes constantly tracking him, he doesn’t know._

_He trips, but he’s caught around the waist by familiar hands, and he can’t see the man’s face (he never sees the man’s face) but there’s a snort in his ear, a “watch your step, Dega” and he’s gone, back among the throngs of sunburned prisoners, though never too far away. Men bump into him when he doesn’t move, but they don’t dare hurt him, not when Louis’s guard dog is so close by and irritable as they are, it’s just too damn hot for a fight. Louis shakes his head, rubbing a damp hand over his eyes in a futile attempt to wipe the perspiration away and-_

_He’s at home, with his wife. Louis doesn’t have a wife, but he drinks wine with this nameless, faceless woman like he knows her, like he once loved her, and he wishes he knew where these feelings stem from, because he’d like his smile to feel as genuine as her’s looks, the whiteness of her straight teeth contrasting with the red gloss of her full lips-_

_Lips that he’s kissing, but they’re not his wife’s, too chapped, the hands on his hips much bigger than that of his wife’s, and he thinks he might've been wrong about whatever he’d been feeling in the other memory (?), because this sparks something else in him, a bitter yearning that lances through his gut, something serrated wrapped in velvet and oh- he wishes this were more than a memory. His hands cup a defined jaw, fingers feeling for cropped blond hair, and the man breathes his name like a prayer, like confession and Louis nearly says his name back, presses his face into a tall, bony shoulder, anchored there by the doubled edged sword lodged into his chest and he wants to stay, wants to stay wants._

_“I have to stay.”_

_Why had he said that, he wonders, his legs dangling over the lip of the cliff, made fearless by the surety of his own fast incoming mortality. The man would have stayed, for him. If he had asked for just a little longer, if he had only given him that look from underneath his lashes. Louis doesn’t have much time left, feels it like it’s hourglass sand coursing through his veins, and he could have waited and then left, and Louis would not feel the awful, awful hollowness engulfing the place where the sword in his chest had been, leaving only a gaping, ragged hole._

_It would have been cruel, selfish, to do so, he answers himself. And Louis has been cruel and selfish enough in his lifetime to do it one last time._

_His leg throbs, and Louis wonders if it would hurt to let the waves claim him._

_His thoughts are becoming more meandering as the days pass. There are rare times when a scant few, lost butterflies migrate to the Island, and Louis wonders if its_ him _sending him a message. The Louis of old would have scoffed at such a silly thought, too prideful, too rooted in stubborn sanity to even let it cross his mind, but that Louis died some time ago, rather brutally, on the boat off of the colony. Louis hadn't thought of it then, too shocked, hands scarlet with someone else’s blood. But it’s been washed away, both the guilt and the blood, and he’s someone else entirely, someone wild and half feral that his wife would no longer recognize._

_That’s fine, he doesn’t think he’d recognize his wife now either._

_Louis’s never seen the man’s face, but he thinks he’d recognize him anywhere, whether it be the soft strands of his dirty blond hair or his heavy, scarred hands, he would know him._

_“I’d know you by your mouth”, the man whispers into his ear one night, his blunt nails scratching soothingly against Louis’s scalp. “I would know you by your eyes, by your nose, by your freckles.” He snorts derisively (at himself, Louis knows), as if he can’t believe the gall of his own words. Louis mentally agrees, because it won’t be long before he leaves, before Louis dies, and there would be no reason for this man to keep Louis etched into his memories the way Louis’s etched him onto the walls of his little cave._

_“Forget me”, Louis suggests, though it stings that he might. It would be for the better, but it still stings. The man laughs, shaking his head and twisting on their tiny cot so that he can look Louis in his eyes, hands moving to cradle his face though it can’t possibly be comfortable._

_“And carve a piece of my heart out? I think not”, he laughs quietly, and their lips are pressing together, chaste and quick, but no less full of meaning._

_You should hate me, Louis doesn’t say, another night, brown fingers twisting into the little cloth in his hands, the black ink of the butterfly he’s drawn there setting in. He thinks he should be crying, certainly feels the burn of tears behind his eyes, but Louis hasn’t cried in a long, long time, and they do not come._

_You should despise me, he thinks, admiring the gleam of the man’s smile, his heart aching because it feels like it’s been years since he’s last seen it. And it has been._

_Because Louis’s taken years and years of this man’s life, all so he could stay protected, and as he sits with him in the hospital, “_ us” _hidden between their clasped hands, Louis doesn’t know how this man can look at him like that. Like he’s hung the moon and the stars, like he’s brought the sun and it physically hurts to not envelope him in an embrace, to steal another kiss, another moment, because if Louis is the moon, he’s merely reflecting this man’s blinding light._

_“For the same reason you have to go.”_

_It feels like the man might keep holding him long enough to push the both of them into the crystal waves below. Louis almost feels disappointed when he doesn’t, but it’s for the best._

_God, it’s for the best._

_He’s lying in the lilies when it happens. He’s always lying in the lilies when it happens, though he could swear there have never been lilies here, not this white, and not this pure, but._

_Louis falls asleep in the lilies, and above him, the stars glitter mournfully, moonlight falling on sightless, pale eyes, glassed silver with starlight. His mouth is parted, the wisp of a name on the tip of his tongue._

And he wakes to sunlight pouring in white-gold puddles through his window, the heat watered down by a morning chill that seeps through the exposed skin he hasn’t wrapped under his blanket. He breathes softly, and for a moment, the anguish of those remembered moments swell in the maw of the hole in his chest, the hurts of a life he remembers only in a dream, before it fades into mist, and he’s left with only a strange longing for something- someone, he doesn’t know. 

He could try and go back to sleep, chase the dredges of black, empty, dreamlessness, but his ears catch the early morning birdsong and knows that it won’t be possible. 

Instead, Louis drags himself from his bed, crawling into an old pair of jeans and a buttercup yellow cardigan, not bothering to so much as run a comb through the wild springs of his curls before snatching up his straw hat and forcing it over his head. He slips socked feet into his rattiest pair of sneakers and goes out through his backdoor to prepare to tend to his garden, a tired smile gently lifting his face. The sweet aroma of his blossoms drift into his nose, a balm against the turbulent whorl of emotions that overwhelm him when he wakes up. 

Something about his garden feels more like home than the house he sleeps in. More than the home he’d had in the city. He kneels in the dirt, pressing his fingers into the soil, probing for… answers maybe. Sometimes, Louis doesn’t know who he is until he’s here in the misty morning light, grounded to the earth where his head can’t float away to foreign islands full of men full of sins with hands bloodier than Louis’s. It only chips against the loneliness that’s long cemented itself into his pores, but it’s alright. He doesn’t know what could possibly quench his thirst for companionship, not when all his attempts at finding a partner have failed, no spark in his heart for anyone who’s ever pursued him. 

He spends nearly half an hour tending to his flowers before his stomach gurgles for attention, and he feels lightheaded with the rush of hunger that hits him. He needs to feed the chickens first, and then he’ll make himself breakfast. 

Louis’s countryside life has always been quiet, the five years he’s lived it. He hadn’t thought he’d adjust so quickly to it, but he’d fallen into it all too naturally. Though the solitude can be lonely, it’s infinitely preferable to the smothering presence of his family, of the pushing mother and the angry father, and the well-meaning but frankly useless older brother, and he doesn’t think he’s ever talked to them all in the past few years. He talks to other people of course, when he needs to go the store several hours away, or when decides he wants to eat at a restaurant. 

But it’s rare that Louis seeks company anymore. 

He feels like a daydream, a person imagined in someone else’s mind at times. He feels lost in his own existence, a ghost of someone, a shell with bright blue paint stuck underneath his fingernails. He’d thought he knew who he was as a child. 

Louis had been ruthless and manipulative and cunning, just as his father had wanted him to be, and then the dreams had started and. Well, his family says he changed. Louis doesn’t think so, not as much as they claim. But his edges have been softened, and he knows that his father wouldn’t know what to do without the fear he used to inflect, and that his brother wouldn’t know how to approach this spacey, not quite there version of his brother. 

Occasionally, he thinks of calling, of saying hello, and laughs the thought away a second later, because if he did, they would use the opportunity to latch their claws back into the scars he has only just healed. 

Louis picks up his brush, and begins to paint a sea he has never seen, his mind finding that strange, thick blankess he can never seem to find in sleep.


	2. And We've Both Done It All a Hundred Times Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a pull in Papi's chest, leading him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone say Yearning?

The road stretches ahead, dirt and rock crumbling beneath the tires of his truck, behind him the sunrise illuminating the horizon in a swath of red and gold, and Henri drives and drives and drives, the impression of smoke and fire wisping beneath his nose. It’s cold out in the morning, even colder with his a/c blasting, but there’s an imprint of heat itching under his skin, a small hand curled around his wrist, blunt nails pressing into bone. 

He doesn’t know if he’s chasing or fleeing, but he’s certainly running, something hooked in his chest and  _ pulling _ , an image of a boy on an island, all large blue eyes behind cracked, round glasses and wild brown curls, that same boy, eyes bright with fear, hands trembling, hair plastered against his skull from rain and sweat, the few few surviving, rebellious curls congregating on the nape of his neck, another flash of him, head held high, striped shirt buttoned to the top despite the lick of the sun’s heat stoking their skin. Henri sees him everywhere, in his dreams, his wandering mind, his voice an indiscernible siren call and Henri wonders where it wants to lead him, if not to dangerous and unfamiliar shores. 

There’s other people in his dreams, but that boy- man, is the only one with a face, the only one who calls Henri’s attention, draws his eyes towards him like a moth to flame, a man to warmth, and Henri is nothing if not a simple, simple man. Everyone else is swathed in shadow, but Henri’s never had eyes for them. 

In every dream, daydream, nightmare, he only has eyes for him. 

There’s an instinctive ache in his ribs when he thinks of him. Unfortunately, he's always a constant thought festering in the back of his mind, and Henri wonders how this stranger that he’s sure he’s never met could own so much space in his soul, in his heart, make it so difficult to love anyone else. 

Henri stifles a yawn and lifts a hand off the steering wheel to rub the dull ache of sleep from his eyes, knowing he shouldn’t neglect it for much longer but not having any wish to sleep on the side of the road. 

_ Don’t be stupid, you’ll have an accident if you don’t sleep soon _ , murmurs a voice in his ear, a deep, soothing rasp, and Henri knows it’s  _ his _ though it always surprises him that someone so small could have a voice that rich. But he’s not being stupid, he thinks back, not caring that he’s talking to someone who only exists in his head, in memories that don’t belong to him. He hears a scoff, and Henri doesn’t roll his eyes,  _ he _ doesn’t deserve the effort. 

A total lie, honestly, because he’s seen himself with split, bloody knuckles for him, seen himself stripped to bare bones and a hollow mind for him, saved because of him but. It’s best to not admit it, lest his voice grow smug. 

Henri wonders what his family thinks of all this. Of him leaving his restaurant in the (arguably) reliable hands of his friend Julot, of packing little more than a few changes of clothes into a duffle and hightailing it to the middle of nowhere with only a note asking them to water his plant, please. They’d certainly commented on his recent spaciness, on his growing restlessness. Not because he doesn’t love his job (he does, he’d worked his ass off to get that restaurant growing), or because he dislikes his home or the city. That’s always felt right, perfect- except not quite, no. It’s that tug in his chest, a missing puzzle piece, a phantom limb he hadn’t known he had until the dreams had started up. 

“You’re yearning”, Nenette had laughed at him, looking at him from under her lashes, pale eyes so, so pretty. 

“Am not”, Henri had snorted back, taking a long sip of his beer to avoid looking at her, because he thinks he might have seen her in a dream the other night. He hadn’t been sure, her face masked with shadow, but he thinks he recognized the cut of her wavy hair before the dream had shivered away like a rock breaking a reflection in a pool of water. When the dream had pieced itself back together, he’d been greeted with a mime, a lanky, slender little thing, and Henri had known his eyes, huge and mischievous as they were, black in the shadows of his cell, matching his painted lips, the black, painted tears under his eyes. 

The tears of a murderer. 

But there had only been amusement in the crooked curl of his smile, teeth flashing white, white on his sharp face, long white lashes framing those eyes, white as the lilies Henri had picked for him- and the dream cuts off. 

But Henri’s not yearning. Certainly not for someone he’s never met, who flits through his thoughts like a spectre. 

No, he lies, he’s not yearning. 

…

_ “Call me…” he hears in the haunted shadows of the cold night, and Papi purses his mouth in pity. Do not name what you do not intend to keep, he reminds himself, and scrubs the name from the shell of his ear, because he does not intend to keep the fragile, stupid, naive creature, can’t, knows he’ll slow him down.  _

_ His hands clench though, and he knows there’s desire there, a want to keep, to protect, that strange instinct that had made him latch onto him the moment he’d seen him on the examination table, an elegant, confused thing, desperately attempting to fast-talk his way out of his situation with little luck, the doctor paying him no mind other than to usher him away. And Papi had been interested in him before he’d been told he had money, but… it was good incentive.  _

_ His waist is warm beneath Papi’s palm, wet from the shower as he pats him in warning, El Caiman and his men lumbering into the showers- _

_ His waist is warm beneath his palms, small and comfortable to rest his hands on, just above the jut of his hips, and his mouth is warm beneath his, soft and pliant (if a bit chapped), and Papi remembers thinking that he’s not the only one who’d want something from those pink lips, and it had been an uncharitable thought at the time when he’d had it, but now, hidden in the shade between the barracks, it’s a fearful one because they’ll be sure to try to take him from him, if not for his money then-. He stops thinking. It’s not helpful, certainly not necessary when there’s hands curling into his hair (cut short, he thinks slightly infuriated, though he can’t be too angry, too worried with his lover right here), quick breathes shared between them.  _

_ And this can’t possibly last, he thinks, it’s not sustainable, he can’t bring him with him, but how is Papi supposed to abandon him, (he’s not, his wife will have him out by Christmas), how’s he supposed to look at those pale eyes and say goodbye? _

_ He doesn’t. Not really, because he doesn’t remember saying it when he jumps, only remembers squeezing him so tightly to his chest that he’d thought maybe they’d fuse together and Papi would have to throw both of them over the edge of the cliff, and he wouldn’t have to say anything, and maybe he would hate him, but Papi wouldn’t care because at least they’d be together still.  _

_ But Papi jumps, and it’s by himself and the water is so cold. He's free, and he chokes on water and elation and he calls his name, “YOU DIRTY LITTLE FORGER, I DID IT”, he yells at the top of his lungs and he hears him scream back, wild, wild, wild.  _

_ That’s what Papi had though he was when he saw him again after those five years. He looks a touch mad, under all the serenity to the blue-green of his eyes, hair overgrown and so curly that Papi wonders just how much pomade it had taken to flatten it into a semblance of order back when he’d had that privilege in the colony. Papi knows he’s not good company quite yet, shrouded in what feels like permanent silence, but somehow his quiet manners have persevered and he chatters enough for the both of them, offers Papi his food and his bed and his smile and his gentle, fragile hands, and it’s almost enough to make Papi break down.  _

_ They’re dancing, the moonlight painting their eyes with silver fondness, Papi’s arms circling his waist, and Papi thinks he sees the stars freckling his eyes, his grin so unbearably sweet and he doesn’t know how to breathe around him anymore, doesn’t know if he ever did because his chest always feels like it’s been caved in when he’s around him.  _

When we leave _ , Papi doesn’t say, doesn’t dare verbalize because it’d be so much to hope for and he hears him coughing when he thinks Papi isn’t looking.  _ When we leave, I’ll-  _ and he never finishes the thought, because it hurts too much to do so.  _

_ “All I own, I’d give”, Papi whispers into the curve of his ear, though he doesn’t own anything, and all he can offer is his soul, his heart, and maybe one day, one day a little cottage in the countryside, anything, anything to keep him at his side.  _

_ “Just a garden”, is the quiet answer he receives and Papi remembers what he’d said the first day,  _ I’ve always wanted a garden,  _ and he feels almost silly for expecting anything else. He’s not the same man that he’d met, silver spoon in his mouth, or no, he is, but the layer of snobby upper society’s been chipped away, and all that’s left is a boy with too-big eyes and a too-big heart who’s gone and buried himself under Papi’s skin, undone the stitches of Papi’s resolve.  _

_ “You can’t come,'' he had said, and it was the truth, turned a lie, turned truth all over again. And “us” had become “I have to stay, for the same reason you have to go”, and the memory of blood and violent waves and his broken ankle. He should have left him, he should have, but he remembers  _ You came back _ , and knows he’d do it again.  _

_ “All I’d ask is never to leave me”, Papi had once whispered to himself in the confines of his cell, his only company a grinning ghost, white-gloved hands tossing a coconut into the air before catching it again. Papi wants to touch, but doesn’t dare, knowing the ghost would dissipate into curls of smoke- _

_ Curls of smoke twirl idly between his fingers as Papi stares blankly into the horizon, having grown tired of trying to toss the cigarette into his mouth. Sky bleeds into water, a monotone blue that might have been pretty if it weren’t a prison. There’s a body pressing against his side, the scribble of a pencil against the yellowed pages of his little notebook and he peeks at him, finds his eyes intent on whatever he’s drawing and Papi finds that they’re also blue, and Papi thinks they might be freedom. He shakes the thought away. Freedom is his money, not his eyes.  _

_ There is no more money. But there is him. And.  _

_ “I’d know you by your mouth”, Papi murmurs, struck by how warm he feels against him, the low burn of a fire curled against him, and he wonders just how soft his hair would feel if he could wash it properly, fluffy curls coiling around his fingers. “I'd know you by your eyes, by your nose, by your freckles”, his sky, a gentle, kissable slope, stars against skin. And he snorts at himself because he’d never been so… sappy. Nenette would laugh at him surely, because Henri was more about actions than words, but all he has now is words and. For him, he knows it’s enough.  _

_ “Forget me,'' he says, like he’s suggesting Papi could do it so easily, like one would pick a flower from the ground.  _

_ “And carve a piece of my heart out? I think not,” he laughs, thinks he might cry because carving his heart out would be easier than forgetting him, and surely, surely he must know that he can’t expect him to do something so impossible as forget him. His hands cradle his face and he presses a kiss to his mouth and he thinks of what it would be like to do this when they’re free, when they’re truly alone together, safe. Papi hadn’t been able to change for Nenette, and he’d felt guilty for it but. He knows for him, he’d do it all, move the world, the ocean, and carve a piece of his heart if need be.  _

_ They’re dancing in the lilies in the moonlight, and Papi doesn’t want it to end. He wants this night to stretch on for eternity, wants to hold him and die this happy, silent music drifting between them. Papi sighs, leans down to kiss his forehead and murmurs, “I love you,...” _

And Henri startles awake, hands trembling and feeling  _ cold,  _ sun blinding him through his windshield. 

_ Shit,  _ he thinks. He really did fall asleep on the side of the road. Henri sighs, groaning at the stiffness in his spine, climbing out briefly to stretch and grab another energy drink from the cooler in the bed of his truck. 

He keeps driving after a few minutes, feeling even more lost than before, and he knows it’s the yearning he’s not feeling, something magnetic, electric, a call that traps his voice in his throat. Henri sighs, and wishes he would have brought his cds along, feeling stupid for forgetting them at home. 

And then he blinks. 

There’s a tiny house in the distance, a novel sight when all Henri’s seen for hours are groves of trees and small stretches of short hilly land. But it’s not really the house that catches his attention. It’s the man he can see in what he thinks is a garden, and Henri thinks there might be something in him that snaps, because he starts to slow, and despite his brief nap, he feels exhausted. 

“I’ve traveled quite far,'' he plans to say. He just wants a quick resting place, he’ll pay, he’ll help with whatever the man needs, anything because it feels like his lungs are filling with water and he’s sure he’s on the edge of. Something. 

Something, he thinks, stepping out of his truck again.


	3. Stars Hide Your Fires, For These Here Are My Desires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henri and Louis meet, and stumble to find what they need

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yearning the sequel part 2 lmao  
> also if yall wanna yell about papillon or rami malek w me i'm alcordraws on tumblr

* * *

Louis pauses, looking up from his tomato plant to peer over his glasses at the dark blue truck rumbling up to his house, the brilliant gleam of the sun reflecting over it’s scratched hood. He frowns, pulling himself up from the ground and plucking off his thick gloves to better dust the soil from his jeans. 

The truck parks, and he pauses when sees the man who hops out; tall, blond and handsome, charming smile on his face, haunted shadow in his eyes. Louis feels as if the breath’s been stolen from his lungs, and his fists clench together. He can’t look at him, eyes falling to the pale, powder blue forget-me-nots on the other side of him, the same blue as the man's eyes and- he doesn’t know what the feeling crawling up his throat is, if it’s panic or sadness or anger, and he doesn’t know why he’d feel it so strongly towards this man, shown up from purple-pink horizon. There’s the quiet crunch of loose rock underfoot and then a shadow looming over him. 

“Hello”, the man croaks, and then clears his throat, confidence leaking away from some mysterious crack, pulling at the strength of his charming-awkward smile. “I was wondering”, he starts, then stops, mouth open as if the right word might stumble out if he waits for long enough. He shakes his head, frustration in the twist of his mouth, and Louis can’t help the spark of amusement that grows in the dark pit of confusion that is his mind. 

This man isn’t used to this, he thinks. Something’s left him wrong-footed, and though Louis doesn’t know what, it’s a little entertaining. It’s not everyday Louis gets to see a man like this lose the veneer of composure. 

“Can I help you?” Louis asks politely, deciding to take pity on him. 

The man blinks at him, and Louis almost starts to wonder if the man is slow when he finally knocks the words forward, if a little clumsily. 

“I- I’d like to, you see I’ve been in that truck for a really fucking long time and I uh, I haven’t seen any rest stops or hotels around and I was wondering. And I would help or pay you if you said yes! But I was wondering, and I completely understand if you might not agree, but. Would you mind if I stayed? Just a day or two, and I _swear_ I’ll pay you back I just uh-”

It’s Louis’s turn to blink, a little bewildered, certainly more confused than before, though that strange thing in his chest, the wood-splinter ache of something he's never understood, feels soothed, and though any other time, any other stranger, _he knows_ he would say _sorry, no_ , he doesn't. Instead, he smiles, something soft, something quiet, an expression he doesn’t quite feels is his, at least not completely. 

“Okay”, he says, though there’s other words sitting on his tongue, a quip about school teachers and sons, or some other such nonsense. 

“My name’s Henri by the way. Henri Charriere," the man, Henri, says, heading back to his truck to grab a duffel bag from the backseat. There’s something wrong about that, his name, but Louis couldn’t possibly put his finger on what, so he pushes the odd feeling away and waves the man inside.

“Louis Dega”, he responds, setting his gardening gloves onto the kitchen counter, aware he’ll have to clean it off later when he cooks dinner. “You can stay in my room while you’re staying here, I don’t mind, just please don't break anything.” Louis can’t help that he rambles, it’d been one of the flaws that his father had hated most, but he’d never been able to break him out of it. “If you want breakfast you’ll have to wake up early enough to help me make it, even if it’s just setting the plates, and I’m afraid it’s quite boring here if gardening and reading aren’t your ideal pastimes. The nearest town is a good three, nearly four hours away- oh that’s the bathroom if you need it- if you want to go somewhere to entertain yourself, I usually only go for groceries. Here’s my- or well your room for now I suppose.” When he turns to meet Henri’s eyes, he finds peculiar expression on his face, something resembling awe and wonder and confusion and Louis wonders if he’s really _that_ out of practice at interacting with people. 

“I uh. Okay. I think I’ll just sleep a little, I’m quite, quit-”

“Tired from the long trip? Yes, I’d suspect that’s the only reason you’d think asking a stranger for housing would be a good idea.” Louis snorts, though inwardly he worries his response might be too acidic. He’s surprised by the grin that blooms on Henri’s face, a brilliant, endearing thing that pulls at the seed of loneliness in Louis’s chest. 

“Tired and a little insane”, Henri agrees with a laugh, dropping his duffle onto the floor next to Louis’s recently made bed. He moves so that he’s in front of Louis, towering, but not intimidating, not to Louis, not when the Henri’s staring at him such kind eyes, like a warm, inviting sky, and Louis has the strangest urge to drift closer, to do something stupid. 

“Thank you, Dega”, Henri rumbles, and his voice strikes a chord, low and soft, and when he places a heavy hand on Louis’s shoulder, he feels as if he’s been struck. 

“I’ll let you get some rest then,” murmurs Louis, stepping away and missing the warmth of Henri’s hand but not wanting to think about it. It’s still early and he still has things to do. Things like avoiding the handsome stranger that makes his belly flutter with butterflies that’ll be staying in his bedroom. 

Louis feels… dislodged, somehow, no longer a ghost adrift in his own home, through his fields. He’s a boat rapidly being filled with water, on the verge of sinking, or, or he’s already sunk and he's being dragged back to the surface, and it’s contradictory, too much air and none at all making his lungs feel tight. He sighs, rubbing his eyes with his palms as the door closes behind him and heads back into his garden. 

…

Henri wonders if letting his truck roll over him would save him from the embarrassment of his introduction. He doesn’t know what came over him, he doesn’t know why he had ever thought this would be a good idea (never mind the way he’d been drawn to those pale eyes and that smile, a familiar protective instinct whining in the back of his head), why he’d thought he couldn’t make it to the next town. He sighs, and looks around the quaint room, a small smile finding its way to his mouth despite his irritation at himself. 

Dega’s house isn’t very big, but it’s cozy, painted bright, cheery yellow on the inside, and on the way to the bedroom, Henri had spotted a cherry bookshelf overstuffed with thick volumes, some about gardening, some about painting, several of them titles Papi had never heard of. There’d been little potted plants by the windows, or hung delicately by the open backdoor. On the walls, there had been paintings, lovely, beautiful things that had been crafted with care, a garden of blue-white lilies under a watchful moon, a dark, foreboding jungle, crashing gray waves. And Henri can feel them all make a ripple in his mind, feels like he’s seen them, breathed the thick humid air, felt the damp leaves crumple beneath his feet, like he’s been there. 

Most vividly of all, he can imagine himself in the painting of the cliff overlooking the crystal blue sea, can smell the salt of waves colliding with the rocky cliff face, dirt crumbling where he stands too close to the edge, tempted to fly and knowing he’ll fall, and there’s a man with him, and it’s strange that Henri can’t see his face now but-

He shakes his head. He really does need to get some sleep in a proper bed. 

Henri kicks off his shoes, then on second thought, he picks them up and places them neatly by the foot of the bed, eyeing the neat dresser and its clear mirror, and the little cactus that sits on top. The morning sunlight pools in strobes of gold and Henri moves to close the curtains in an attempt to darken the room. It doesn't really work, the curtains are too thin. 

Laying in Dega’s bed, despite the exhaustion gnawing angrily at his limbs, turning them to lead, he can’t seem to fall asleep. His mind flickers to Dega, then, and his soft yellow cardigan, his dirty watercolor blue jeans, the curls sprouting from under his straw hat, soft, framing a sharp, pretty face. And his eyes. 

Henri doesn’t know what it is about his eyes that captivate him, big and round and pretty as they are, somewhere between blue and green with a tint of gray, something mysterious about them from behind the glare of his round glasses. He’s a man lost at sea, looking into them. 

_I know him_ , Henri thinks, ridiculous a thought as it is. He’s never met him. But he sits there in that place where his longing had been, a shard of glass between his ribs, tugging, tugging, tugging. 

Now his eyes grow heavy, his long trip winning, and he wonders if Dega’ll let him shower later. 

…

 _How does anyone sleep so late?_ Dega thinks, a little hypocritically, spreading strawberry jam on his toast, his idea for a midday snack. He does himself the kindness of not thinking of when he’d lived in the city, always feeling exhausted and sleeping well into the afternoon because he could, but never feeling any less tired. He wakes with the sun these days to tend to his garden, to enjoy the sunrise, just because he can now, because for all that he feels like a non-person sometimes, he no longer feels like there’s a shadowed entity in his head, telling him it’d be easier to just stay asleep. 

To let the waves claim him, so to speak. 

Besides, sleeping means being stuck in the strange cloud of his dreams.

He’s sitting in his small living room with his toast, flipping through one of his books, when he hears the door to the bedroom open, and he turns curious eyes to the short hallway until Henri appears, blond hair tousled, eyes blurry with sleep. Louis surreptitiously does not pay attention to the fact that he’s only wearing a soft, worn cotton t-shirt and his boxers and keeps his eyes trained on Henri’s face, forcing away the fond smile that wants to grow at the sight of his grumpy, tired pout. 

“Not much of a morning person? Or, well, one in the afternoon person?” Louis teases, licking a bit of jam off the corner of his mouth. His answer is a raspy grunt, and he tries not to laugh, without much success. 

“I assure you, I’m usually more awake by now," Henri grumbles, eyeing Dega’s toast with interest. 

“I was going to ask, can I use your shower? Long ass car trips aren’t very conducive to good hygiene.” He gives him a rueful grin, and Dega nods, tipping his head in the direction of the bathroom. 

“Of course, you already know where the bathroom is. The water takes a minute to warm up though, so watch out for that.”

“Thanks.” Henri gives him a messy salute before he heads back to Louis’s room to pick out some clothes, and Louis wonders if he should ask if he'd like to join him for a walk later. 

He finishes his toast in a few more bites and goes back to his book, tempted to play some music but allowing the accompaniment to his thoughts be the simple _tick_ of the clock hung on the wall next to a painting he’d done of the nearby pond. It’d have made his father furious to see him indulge in such things, in the quiet buzz of a bee finding a flower to take nectar from, in the feeling of paint going dry against his skin, the sun painting his skin with gold. Louis used to think he only lived to spite his father. Not so much anymore, now that there’s peace in his mind, even among the melancholy of his dreams. 

He hears the shower shut go off, a crack in the normal silence of his home, and Louis sighs, closing his book and going into the kitchen to make a meal for Henri. 

…

“It’s very beautiful here," Henri says quietly, eyes turned gold by the setting sun. The sight of it makes Louis’s stomach churn. 

He nods in agreement, gaze turning back to the dipping sun, admiring the candle-melt of colors in the sky, as he does every night before he goes to bed. It’s comforting to him, a bone-deep need, as if he’s waiting for something that’s been carved from his chest to come back and heal whatever wound it is that he can’t see, but feels almost too vividly. Tonight, he doesn’t feel it so harshly, and for a fleeting, wild moment he thinks it might have to do with Henri. 

The cool breeze that accompanies the velvet blue of night reminds him he can’t stay out for too long, a shiver crawling along his spine in warning. Louis leaves Henri to watch the sunset on his own, and goes to complete his nightly routine, though tonight, instead of curling into his bed, he takes the thick blanket he keeps in his closet for winter and one of the pillows and drags them into the living room, relieved when he doesn’t trip over Henri’s bag or his shoes.

“Are you sure you’re fine sleeping here? I’m not sure about taking your bed..” Henri frets, watching him drop the bedding onto the plush couch. Louis arches an eyebrow at him. 

“I assure you, Henri, you will _not_ fit on this couch. Believe me, I’m perfectly fine with you taking my room, it’s only for a few days. Besides, you’ll be repaying me by helping me in my garden tomorrow.” 

Louis grins at subtle way Henri’s face goes white. 

“Goodnight then, Dega. Thank you again, you’ve been very kind.” 

It is not until Louis hears the soft click of his door closing that he murmurs _goodnight_ under his breath, eyes dropping to the moonlight spilling into the room from the windows. 

Neither Louis nor Henri dream that night. 

…

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you”, Louis accuses, trying to smother the laughter building in his chest with the sleeve of his green sweater. Henri glares at him, though it’s softened by his grumpy pout, dirt smeared on his cheek and forehead from where he’d tried to wipe away sweat. 

By Henri’s side is the pile of flowers and spouts that he had pulled with or _instead_ of the weeds he’d been trying to help Louis pull away. The gloves feel too small and make his hands clumsy, make the task far harder than Louis made it look and Henri thinks he might have felt more annoyed if Louis’s laugh wasn’t so damn sweet. He eyes the little blue flower that he’d caught, frowning at the little cluster he’d accidentally torn it from. 

“This is shit”, he says bluntly, only to grin openly at Louis’s offended squak, eyes bright with disbelief behind his glasses. 

“Just because _you’re_ shit at picking out weeds doesn’t mean the whole garden is shit. Go on, you’ve done your damage, go feed the girls”, Louis huffs, shooing Henri away toward the chicken coop and the five chickens inside. Henri grumbles, but dusts himself off and does what he’s told, picking up the chicken feed on his way towards the coop.

Five pairs of beady little eyes greet him, and then start clucking when they realize he has their afternoon meal, Myrtle particularly loud in her plea for food. 

“Hello Morgan, Myrtle, Mary, Moria, Marinette”, he greets, accepting their clucks and squaks in return. 

Before he goes back to Louis, he stretches, pausing when his eyes catch on the pond glistening with sun in the faint distance, tantalizing in the wake of the fading but still scorching midday summer heat. The day’s nice, a dry breeze rustling in the grass, the sky above pleasantly blue and painted with thin wisps of white cloud, and Henri wonders if Louis would take him swimming. 

It’s his third day at Louis’s home, and he’s been meaning to ask, wanting a dip in the cool water before the nearing autumn storms sweep his chance away. 

It’s his third day with Louis, and Henri hardly knows anything about him at all. He’s told him all about his restaurant back in the city, the struggle it was to save up for it while he was in college, going through culinary school, how lucky he was to have the support of his family, the motivation that the pride on his mother’s face would give him. He’d told him about meeting Julot in highschool, when he’d come over to ask Henri if he could copy his homework only to shrug and sit beside him when Henri responded with a laugh because he’d forgotten to do it to. He’d talked about Nenette too, how they’d known each other since they were babies, how he’d thought he’d loved her once, how she’d laughed when he admitted it to her. 

“She’d like it here”, Henri had said, grilling a fish while Louis had worked on a salad. “Says she’d like to live on a farm, but I think she just likes the idea of some freedom, some air.”

Louis had smiled, a glint in his eyes, the corners of his mouth tinged with sadness.

“I understand what she means.”

 _He looks happy here_ , Henri had thought once, watching him paint a faceless man, his eyes feverishly bright. But there’s something melancholic about him, like he’s waiting, though for what, Henri wouldn’t know, and he doesn’t want to ask. Well no, he'd like to ask, but all of his questions have either been rebuffed, redirected, or ignored all together, a straight answer as elusive as the faces of the people in Henri’s dreams. 

“Where are you from?”, Henri would asked, to be answered with a short, clipped, “here.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“A few years.”

“How’s your family?”

“I don’t know.”

And Henri had stopped asking. Henri feels as if he’s spilled the entire well of his life in Louis’s hands, and while he doesn’t expect the same treatment, he wonders why it’s so easy, why he wants Louis to like him so badly when they barely know each other. 

_But you do know him_ , whispers that little voice in his head, and Henri has to shake his head to dispel his rapidly derailing thoughts like a dog shaking water from its fur. He turns back to Louis, eyes tracing his distinctive profile, the gentle slope of his small nose, his plump upper lip and he’s overcome by the urge to touch, to trail his fingers along the length of his spine. His eyes lock with Louis’s, and he smiles. 

“There something you need, Henri?” he asks, pulling himself to his feet and dusting the soil from his jeans. He takes his straw hat off, hair flattened by sweat, skin browned by the sun. 

Henri hums, eyes flitting back to the pond, angling his head in that direction to better illustrate his next words. 

“I was wonderin’ if we could go over there for a swim?” 

Louis walks over, slipping his heavy gloves off and sliding then into the back pocket of his jeans, leaning an arm on Henri’s tall shoulder in an act of familiarity that neither notice. Henri’s arm twitches, wanting to twine around Louis’s waist, but he tamps the impulse down with an unexpected amount of force. Louis is a small man, but everything about him seems to invade Henri’s senses, and Henri wonders if it’s always been so hard to breathe, if the sky’s always been so dull in comparison to his eyes. 

“I think we could head over in an hour or two after lunch. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good swim,” Louis says with a little dip of his head, rubbing a hand over his face to wipe away the sweat. 

“That sounds good," Henri agrees, and they both head back inside to prepare lunch. 

…

The water is cool against Louis’s skin, translucent blue-green shifting with every step Louis takes and it makes a shiver run along his spine, gooseflesh making the hairs on his arms stand in alarm. It’s not particularly deep, going only waist high at the deepest part, but Louis warns Henri to be careful all the same, to watch out for sharp rocks he could possibly cut his foot on. Above them, the sun blazes white-gold against a cerulean sky, the feathered wisps of cottony clouds that survive the heat looking like faint, white forgotten paint splotches on the pale, watercolor sky.

Henri’s already in the deeper part of the water, having challenged him to a race before sprinting ahead of him, leaving Louis to gape after him and stumble to catch up. He’d had the foresight to bring swim trunks in his meager bag of clothes, which Louis had found a relief. He doubts very many of his clothes would live long after having to be stretched on Henri’s larger body. He’s in the very center of the pond, and Louis can’t see his face, just that he’s staring at his hands, cupped in the water and Louis wonders what he sees, what he thinks. 

He wonders that often, when he sees Henri’s pale eyes watching him when he thinks he’s not looking. There’s a look to them, Louis thinks, like he can see whatever ghost might live in the hollowed out space of Louis’s lungs, breathing his air and using him to speak, and Louis thinks, sometimes, he can see that ghost in Henri too. Sees it the crooked quirk of his smile, in the curls of his cigarette smoke. 

Louis hasn’t had many dreams since Henri’s stayed with him, little more than sepia-tone flashes, a craving so strong he’s woken up once with tears wetting his face. 

Henri spills the water cupped in his hand over his head and when he turns around to face Louis, he sees the flicker of something distant drawing his face thin, eyes darkened by specters. And then the look is gone and he’s grinning, and he’s clumsily racing towards Louis while the sunlight turns his hair platinum. There’s water being splashed in his face, and Louis nearly chokes on his laughter, following Henri into the pond, dunking himself under the surface to find reprieve from the sun's heated stare. 

They play in the water for hours and Louis is sure he’s never felt this light, a balloon of joy filling up his chest, dodging a playful shove and smirking when he tricks Henri into stepping in a little hole, tripping him into the water. He couldn’t have had this when he lived in the city, when he was under his father’s thumb. His father would be scornful and his mother would be scandalized, and he thinks the Louis of the past would have been envious of Henri and his supportive parents, his easily made, loyal friends. 

The Louis of now thinks his smile widens just to spite his father. 

He yelps when Henri grabs his ankle from underwater, revenge for the trick he’d pulled on him and they laugh and laugh and laugh until the sky is tinged with purple and the slither of the breeze alerts them of the approaching twilight. 

Louis doesn’t miss the way Henri’s eyes linger on him, and he’d be self-consciousness if Henri didn’t look so utterly like a man starving presented with his first meal in several days. He can’t help that his own eyes stray to Henri’s pale collarbones, his broad shoulders, the stretch and pull of muscles in his back. For a moment, his distraction costs him and Louis stumbles, heart jumping into his throat, but he doesn’t fall. A strong arm wraps around his waist, warm if wet from the pond, and Henri’s laugh rings eerily in his ears, “watch your step, Dega”, and without thought, clarity striking fire-bright in his mind, Louis answers, “please, call me Louis.”

There’s a hitch in Henri’s breath, and idly, Louis’s eyes are drawn to the butterflies circling his head, before they’re drawn to his eyes, down the long slope of his nose, lips that seem so impossibly close. He blinks, and he doesn’t know- he. 

Henri’s mouth is on his, quite suddenly, gentle and probing, asking for permission that Louis finds himself granting, his arms reaching up to cross behind Henri’s neck warmth curling in Louis’s belly. Heavy hands press into his hips, and he’s sure they’re going to leave a mark, Henri’s holding him like he’s a ghost, like a memory he doesn’t want to let go and there’s a desperation in the way he licks inside Louis’s mouth, a desperation Louis matches, sparking the crawl of magma in his veins aflame. 

_And as Papi pins him down on their tiny cot, mouth latching onto his neck, Louis drinks him in like a man on death row offered his last drop of wine, because this is it, this is the last time they’ll do this, the last time he’ll feel Henri like this because he’ll leave and Louis will be alone alone alonealonealonealone-_

Louis breaks the kiss with a sudden need for _air_ and _space,_ guilt he doesn’t understand bubbling in his throat and he needs to _be alone_. 

“I’m sorry, Henri, I’ve-”, and as Louis untangles himself from Henri’s arms, he’s hit with such dizzying spiral of self-hatred he feels almost sick with it. 

_Selfish coward_ , his mind snarls at him and Louis can only give Henri another mumbled apology before he scrambles away, fighting to draft air back into the deflated balloon in his chest. 

Henri watches him leave, confused and utterly stricken. 

…

The house is quiet when Henri finally gets back, but he can hear the shower running, so he knows Louis beat him to the bathroom. 

He slips quietly into Louis’s room, mind blank of everything other than the warm press of Louis’s mouth against his. Henri chokes on the wave of emotion crowding in his chest, like he was _so close_ to that thing that had hooked itself into his ribs and pulled him into the middle of nowhere and it’s been whisked away from him, like a piece of him’s been carved away. He just wishes he knew what piece it was and why it feels like Louis has it. 

Kissing him had been impulse, he’d felt like a magnet being pulled to its opposite. Henri knows that if Louis said anything, made it clear he was uncomfortable, Henri would pack his bags and leave him alone. It would hurt, he thinks, but his mind flashes to bloody knuckles and empty silences and he knows that leaving him, if that’s what Louis wants, would not be the only sacrifice he’d make. 

Henri groans, curses himself, the damn yearning he swore he didn’t feel, curses Louis, uncurses, and decides to curse the voice in his head that sounds so much like him instead. He curses his dreams and the man he sees in them, curses him and his siren song voice and his eyes, eyes just as pale and blue as Louis’s. 

He checks his phone to distract himself, a message from Julot, _things are going well with the restaurant_ , one from his parents, _come home soon_ , and he pauses, heart stuttering, when he finds the one from Nenette. 

_I hope you find what you’re looking for_. Henri laughs, short, sharp, hoarse. He doesn’t know. He curses Nenette too. 

…

Henri leaves his room an hour later, clothes piled in his arms for his shower. His stomach twinges when he finds the house still silent, empty, but it settles when he finds dinner prepared for him on the table, lukewarm now, but still clearly prepared with care. It’s almost enough to balm the sting of Louis not waiting for him to cook dinner with. He places the plate in the microwave to reheat after his shower, and drifts into the bathroom, the pond water already dry on his skin from all the time he’d spent in Louis's room. 

There’s the memory of Louis’s warm, wet waist brushing against his hands, comfortable and familiar and Henri burns with the desire to hold him again, to find his mouth again, and he wonders, should Louis turn him away, if he would ever be able to find anyone who would inspire so much want in him. 

He doubts it but. 

Henri shakes his head, drying and dressing himself mechanically and when he walks back into his kitchen, passing the living room, he pauses. Louis’s curled up on the couch, already asleep. He must have been outside, in his garden, Henri realizes when he spies his sneakers near the couch, soil encrusted on the bottom, and he’s left his yellow cardigan over the back of the sofa. The blanket he sleeps with has fallen to the floor, and before Henri really thinks about what he’s doing, he’s picking up the blanket and folding it around Loui’s shivering body, tucking it tightly around his shoulders. He brushes a soft curl away from his face, and then retracts his hand like he’s been burned, scolding himself for taking such liberties. 

Louis is a good cook and even reheated, the meal is good, but it all tastes like ashen mush on Henri’s tongue, soured by the events of the evening. 

He’d like to stay friends with Louis, would like to keep in contact with him even if nothing else happens, but he’s afraid he’s gone and scared him away. He can imagine the pity on Nenette’s face when he tells her about the quiet, smart, beautiful man he’d met, and he can imagine the way she’d roll her eyes at him when he tells her about how he’d messed things up. Henri sighs, and curses her again, though she hasn’t done anything. 

Henri’s already missed the sunset, so all that greets him when he goes to lock the doors is the cool gaze of the moon. 

…

_Darkness and solitary dull his mind, chip away at the pieces of his soul, his body, but Papi does not let it take his breath, forcing air through his lungs through the click of gritted teeth. In the corner of his cell, twirling his red umbrella, is his dream of a companion, shadowy dark eyes tracing the art on the walls , critical, though the smile on his face is ever present. For Papi, the mime is his art, the art of his mind aside from his name carved in stone and the bloody handprint on the wall._

_It’s so obvious he doesn’t belong in this place, clean and sleek and pretty as he is, so Henri lets him take him to the Moulin Rouge, where he can pretend among the crowd of shadowed faces that he might just be human._

_Papi is dying, he’s sure, water on his back, air struggling to creep back into his lungs, but it’s blocked by large hands of the man above him and he fights and he scrabbles against him, shaking spittle from his face and he can’t see the other man’s eyes through the swath of s shadow, never sees anyone through the swath of shadow and he hates that he won’t see the face of the man who’ll be the death of him._

_Out of nowhere, face twisted with the livid, loathing fury of an avenging angel, is_ him _, the fear burned away from his blazing eyes. And he plunges the knife into his attaker’s back, keeps stabbing and stabbing, blood flying on his face and turning his hands scarlet. The hands around Papi’s neck slacken, and he's calling his name, forcing him away, the knife- his hands are gloved with-_

_Hands gloved in white cradle Papi’s face, and looking properly into the mime’s eyes, he finds they’re not quite black, but just very, very dark green, and he wants to be closer, to taste his painted mouth, but he’s weak, and the mime holds him still._

_“Breathe, Papi," he says in his deep, quiet rasp of a voice. And Papi breathes._

_…_

_Louis has always thought himself a quiet, nonthreatening man, perfect for his profession of making egotistical rich men fall for his flattery, for his supposed admiration._

_He is not strong, and he accepts this as he’s never had to fight, never had to lift a finger to protect himself. In French Guiana, this makes him easy pickings, and without his protector, he knows he’s as good as dead. But Louis has not survived as long as he has (his father's hands, his clients' arrogance) by being stupid, so he takes his time sweettalking his way into the warden’s pocket and allows his teeth to grow a healthy appetite for blood._

_…_

_“What’s the son of two school teachers doing in a place like this?” he asks, and Papi wonders if the feral, smiling creature in front of him is real, if he isn’t just the phantom from his cell reimagined to fit his surroundings. The mime never chattered so much though, never flitted around so impatiently and Papi knows he has to be real._

_In the privacy of their little stone hut, he proves himself to be real, body warm and solid, fingers tangled in dark curls and Papi can_ feel _again. He’s not a ghost, not an animal, he’s a man and he has what he wants in his arms, murmurs choked, broken “I love yous” into his long, graceful neck, tracing his finger along bony, freckled shoulders._

_Papi looks at that lost looking creature on the examination table and knows he’s going to die, likely before they make it to the prison. Just another body for the guards to pick off the boat and feed the sharks with. The man besides him says as much._

_Papi doesn’t look at the stupid, naive man who had thought it would be so easy to talk his way around, who’s arrogance would no doubt get him killed. Don’t name what you won’t keep, he reminds himself, and pushes him away._

_Papi can’t look away from him, from the way the sun breaks on his golden skin, turns his eyes nearly translucent. Even scared he is beautiful and he looks almost like that lost little thing he had tucked under his arm all that time ago, crisp white shirt tucked into his faded striped pants, his curly hair glossed flat. His smile is radiant, and Papi is tempted to pull him close and kiss him, swears that the grip of his hand around his wrist is a fire-brand against his skin._

_“Us”, they say, and Papi thinks it might just come true._

Us, _he thinks, drifting away from the island, the man a distant speck in the sky and Papi’s chest aches, even as freedom drags him away on its current._

_Papi looks at his sleeping face, tranquil and soft in the moonlight, his long, dark lashes resting against his high cheeks. Their hands are twined together, and not for the first time, Papi forgets to breathe._

_…_

_The man traces the art on Louis's wall with a critical eye, stuck on the painting of himself, the butterfly emblazoned on his chest. Louis wonders if he can see the face Louis painted, can see the crinkle of his smiling eyes and still see himself in it. There's more, a boat on a violent, unforgiving sea, little pretty things, but when he's done looking, having taken in his fill, he only has eyes for Louis._

_There are times when Louis looks into the man’s eyes, so full of adoration, of love, and his stomach curdles, and he wants to ask_ “why?” 

_Louis loves him too, more than he knows how to how to express with words, more than he ever thought it was possible to ever love anything. So when the time comes, Louis knows that he has to let him go. There’s something symbolic, he thinks, about the butterfly he tucks into the man’s pack._

_If you love something, set it free._

_Louis didn’t realize just how painful it would be._

_Don’t love me, Louis wants to say sometimes. I don’t deserve any more from you. I don’t deserve-. Louis’s so tired. He’s going to be selfish for just a little longer._

_…_

Louis doesn’t cook breakfast with Henri, though he leaves him eggs and pancakes to heat up again along with a note written in quick but pretty handwriting. 

_Gone to the store, please feed the chickens,_ it reads. The store several hours away. Louis’s still avoiding him then. Henri sighs, but eats his meal while having a quick conversation with Nenette, and then goes to feed Louis’s birds. 

It’s quiet without Louis around for conversation, and it makes Henri antsy, the silence grinding against his skull like rock against cement. Henri’s never liked the quiet, feels it like a slithering snake wrapped noose-like around his throat. He takes a deep breath, picks up one of Louis's books and goes outside to read.

He doesn't have much success concentrating on the words in front of him, mind drifting to his dreams from last night, to soft lips and big eyes and warm hands. Henri rubs at his temple, and instead looks up at the sky. 

It's a dimmer blue than it has been these past few days, painted clouds replaced with tufts of thick, gray cotton. Henri frowns and wonders if there's something he should be doing to protect the garden and chickens from the storm thickening the breeze. This time he does curse Louis and heads inside, deciding that he wants to fiddle with Louis's record player.

…

The guilt that's been gnawing at Louis's belly since he abandoned Henri the day before has grown into a massive, solid knot. He feels _bad_ for leaving him alone, but he doesn't- he can't-.

Louis's never been particularly good with this sort of thing. And, and he likes Henri, he genuinely does, and Louis doesn't regret kissing him, and he would do it again but. Henri's leaving in a few days.

Henri has a restaurant to run and friends to get back to and a family who loves him. And who is Louis to keep him from that? (There's also a part of Louis that _aches_ at the thought of having to let him go, at the thought of getting close, allowing himself to open his heart to him, only to watch him drift into the blue horizon once he's done with Louis, bored with his quiet life, with him.) 

Louis has spent so many years cultivating his garden, painting in an effort to wash away the sins of his past (often, it feels like he’s rinsing blood instead of paint off his fingers) and he doesn’t want to ruin this. He doesn’t want to be the reason this thing with Henri crumbles, and he knows they have to talk but Louis is so terribly out of practice. It’s a symptom of living such a secluded life for so long, he knows, but it’s never really been an issue until now. 

_I suppose I better try_ , he thinks to himself as he stuffs a bag of chicken feed into the trunk of his small car. 

…

Louis can hear music playing from outside his home when he gets back. He quickly puts the feed and fertilizer away and picks up the groceries to bring inside and is greeted with the sight of Henri on top of his couch, socked feet nearly slipping over Louis’s neatly folded blanket. He’s using his phone as a microphone, and singing, nearly shouting along to Louis’s only Queen record, the one he’d stolen from his brother out of spite before running away, _Good Old Fashioned Lover boy’s_ bright bass leading Henri into a dance that has him nearly toppling off the couch. 

When they lock eyes, Henri freezes, mouth agape in what may have originally been his attempt to follow the next note. It makes him look like fish when all he does is open and close it, eyes bulging wide. 

“Hello Dega”, Henri rasps once the record stops playing, and Louis can’t help the swell of laughter that bursts from his mouth, nearly doubling over with the force of it. 

Henri looks startled by it, but it only takes him a moment to join in and then they’re both laughing at the absurdity of it. It almost feels like yesterday didn’t happen, a faded thought pushed to the back of their minds for the time being as they giggle like teenagers and Louis pokes fun at Henri’s caterwaul of a singing voice. 

Several minutes later, there’s tea steaming between them, white wisps of smoke flitting lazily from the dark liquid. 

“Would you like to go on a walk with me?” Louis asks, eyes on his reflection. He doesn’t see the eagerness in Henri’s eyes. 

“I’d like that, yes," Henri answers, tracing the sharp angles of Louis’s face with his eyes, idly counting the slight dusting of freckles on his cheeks not obscured by his round glasses. Their late lunch is a quiet affair, but not an uncomfortable one, and it feels nice to cook with Henri again. Louis hadn’t realized just how much he’d come to depend on Henri’s easy companionship until he’d forced himself to give it up. It feels good to have it back now, at least. 

…

It’s cooler out, and the clouds have gotten darker and thicker, slowly fusing into one dark, ominous shadow in the sky, but that doesn’t deter Louis’s plan for a quick walk, nor does he listen when Henri tries to bully him into wearing a coat. 

“We’ll just be out for a few minutes and then we’ll be back before the rain hits," he says, stubborn, pulling on only his cardigan. Henri rolls his eyes at him, but doesn’t argue any further. 

Henri has discovered that Louis grows chatty when he’s nervous, often filling long stretches of silence with idle chatter, talk of flower meanings and little anecdotes of a brother that tints his smile with bittersweetness. He points out insects, coos when he a little butterfly lands on his finger. He never shares anything personal, and when he talks it’s like his mind can’t find any one thing to settle on, jumping from his distress of his rapidly decreasing water color collection (“It takes _weeks_ for new things to come in, Henri it’s a nightmare”) to a prideful little speech about his tomatoes, to the distress he’d felt when he thought some wild animal had taken Myrtle.

When he grows silent, Henri looks up from where he’d been staring at Louis’s flitting hands and follows his eyes to the pond. 

Ah. 

Wind rustles through the tall, pale green grass around them, and Henri’s caught by the look of- of… He’s not sure what it is in Louis’s eyes, but it unsettles him, unease curling in his belly. 

_I’m sorry_ , he means to say, _I shouldn’t have, it was wrong of me to presume, I-_

“Can I kiss you? Please?” he asks instead, and Louis looks like he might shatter. Henri feels like he’s cracked, and he might just shatter along with him. 

“Yes”, Louis says, and it sounds like the word has to be scraped out of his mouth. 

A cold droplet of water lands on Henri’s head, but he barely feels it, hesitantly bringing his hands up to cradle Louis’s face, small between Henri’s wide palms, delicate almost. Louis has to tiptoe and Henri has to lean down, and Louis has to brace his palms on Henri's chest, but eventually, their lips meet. Thunder rumbles, but Henri can't hear it over the storm whirling in his head and roaring in his ears, drawing Louis closer with a hand behind his head, fingers curling into soft hair. Finally, Henri feels as if there's air rushing into his lungs, a man fed, hungry for Louis's touch, and if the way Louis's hands roam is any indication, he's hungry too. 

They only part once it starts raining in earnest and Louis's curls are plastered to his skull, thin cardigan soaked through. Henri isn't faring much better, but his sweater's far thicker. They need to get back before they get sick, bit it's too easy to stand together, tangled in each other's space, Henri's forehead resting on Louis's. Louis is solid in his arms, but somehow Henri still feels like he's holding the faint smoke of a memory. 

In the moment, it doesn't matter. It's raining, and like idiots, they kiss again, and again, and one more time, before a flash of lightning convinces them to race back to the house, hand in hand.


	4. Serve God Love Me And Mend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's dreams and visitors and revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope yall like this one, it was fun to write!

__ Henri’s eyes blink open, mind syrupy and thick with sleep, the low embers of a fire warm and comfortable in his belly, thick red blanket wrapped snugly around his body. Outside, he hears the gentle patter of rain and a fond smile tugs at the corner of his lips, memories of the previous evening trickling into his blurry, morning-soft mind like sweet molasses. 

Louis’s hand had been so warm, palms soft and they’d both been nearly soaked through from the rain, laughing and tripping through the grass like a couple of school boys, Louis shrieking when he falls into a puddle, grabbing onto Henri and forcing them both into the muddy water. They’d laughed some more, Louis butting his wet curls against Henri’s chest, breathless and Henri had been felt a lump in his throat and he’d kissed him again because he could, Louis pliant beneath him until another roar of thunder had startled them apart. 

They’d been shivering cold by the time they reached the house, and Louis’s eyes had been soft and kind when he’d slipped into the bathroom, lips bright red, and then he’d closed the door before either of them could say anything. 

He’d fallen asleep by the time Henri had finally come out of the bathroom, and again, Henri had wrapped his thick blanket around his shoulders. He hadn’t hesitated this time, when he’d trailed his fingers through his soft, curly hair, had smiled when Louis had leaned into his touch, a small smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. There had been an odd flush to his cheeks, but Henri hadn’t thought much of it at the time, Louis warm beneath his hand. 

Henri sighs, curling tightly under the blankets, wanting to stay in the memory of Dega’s arms and his mouth and his eyes, too warm and comfortable to find any desire to want to crawl out of bed. 

He buries his nose into the pillows, and then makes a face. They don’t smell like Louis anymore. 

He’ll do laundry today then, and wash out Dega’s blanket too and maybe he’ll switch them around and he’ll have the scent of Dega to fall asleep to. In the quiet of his mind, he can admit that it soothes his dreams, that it brings a strange sort of calm to the constant throb of longing that he always wakes up to. 

Maybe he feels a little too giddy as he pulls out clothing from the mess that’s become of his duffle bag, because while he knows that he and Dega have to  _ talk _ , it’s a conversation he thinks he might be excited about. Nervous too, because maybe he misread the signs like he did with Nenette and Louis doesn’t like him quite like Henri does (isn’t drawn to him moth-to-fire) and Louis will think that they’ll split and they’ll forget and- he shakes his head, scolding himself for being so alarmist. At worst (he hopes), Dega won’t be interested in being more than friends and they’ll trade numbers and talk sometimes. Maybe Henri might even come to visit him. He’d be happy with that, he thinks as he does up the buttons of his red flannel, as long as he gets to stay friends with Dega. He pauses on the last button, doubt making his normally steady fingers clumsy. Henri doesn’t know what he’d do if Louis wants nothing more to do with him, if he doesn’t like Henri as much as he thought he did. 

Over the course of the last few days, that feeling of pulling he’d felt in his chest had faded, the ragged edges of an old hurt soothed and smoothed by the low chime of Louis’s laugh and Henri doesn’t like the idea of feeling it again.

He mentally shakes the thoughts away and wipes a hand over his face. Henri isn’t usually one to overthink things, especially things like friendship but. He supposes it might be because he’s interested in more, with Louis. It’s easier to admit it than he’d thought it would be, and the thought washes over him like a cool wave, all at once and encompassing, but not overwhelming. 

Henri slips on his shoes and slips into the bathroom, letting his thoughts wander while he brushes his teeth, wondering what Louis might have in mind for breakfast before they go out for the morning. He grins a little at that, the fact that he’s gotten Louis to start eating  _ before _ going out into his garden. He hopes the storm from the previous night didn’t ruin it; he’d heard the rain go on well into the night, turning the sky an inky pitch that kept Henri from seeing the stars. 

When he strolls into the kitchen, he frowns when he finds that Louis isn’t already waiting for him at the table, flicking away at a book he’s no doubt already read (somehow, Louis manages to sneak into his room while Henri’s asleep and not wake him to pick out his clothes for the day). A quick peek out the window reveals a watercolor gray sky and a field of grass darkened into emerald by the rain, faint mist drifting away in the distance, but no Louis. His frown deepens, and he wonders if he might have left to get something from the store when he hears the pad of quiet footsteps in the living room. 

“Dega?” he calls quietly, just in case he’s still sleeping. 

He also hears the soft rustle of cloth, and peeking in, he finds Dega slowly, blearily folding his blanket as if he’d only just woken up, still in the soft, cotton pajamas he’d fallen asleep in, hair splayed in wild curls around his oddly pale face. 

“Good morning, Henri”, Louis greets with a sniffle, his voice somewhat raspy. There’s dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept very well and Papi’s face scrunches up in worry. 

“You good? You don’t look- uh,well you kinda look like shit”, Henri says bluntly, walking over to take the blanket from Louis and folding it properly when Louis’s trembling hands can’t quite complete the task. 

Much of the color’s been drained from Louis’s face, leaving him ashen, save for the bright flush of his cheeks, making the shadowy purple bruises under his pale eyes seem that much darker and Henri feels his gut twist with worry at the hint of a wheeze in his breathing. 

“I’m alright Henri, it’s nothing. Just a tickle in my throat”, Louis dismisses with a scoff, pushing past him to go change for the day. He tactfully ignores Henri’s dubious look.

…

Maybe Louis does feel a little worse for wear, but he isn’t going to make a big deal of it, he doesn’t see a need to bother Henri with something so minor as a headache or a scratchy throat. He knows Henri’s concerned, but he doesn’t think he needs to be, this is hardly the worse Louis has ever felt, though he finds that his thoughts feel a little more like scattered, fluttering birds and he’ll admit it’s a bit frustrating, to be staring down at the red and white striped shirt in his hand instead of putting it on, his mind spinning images of blood into the bright fabric. 

He blinks the afterimages away, swallowing down the imagined taste of saltwater in his mouth and picks out a different shirt instead. It’s powder blue and light, and the material feels soft against his skin, thin enough that he doesn’t feel the need to roll up the long sleeves.

Henri’s already begun to scramble eggs when Louis finally joins him in the kitchen, sunlight pouring through windows blurred by raindrops, and Louis smiles at the warmth of it, chest fluttering with fondness. He remembers the kiss from the day before and the fondness curls its thorny vines around his heart and he doesn’t know how he’s never felt the loneliness of his isolation so badly until Henri came along. 

“That smells nice,'' he says while he drifts over to the fridge, intent on slicing up some mushrooms to go with an omelette. Louis’s surprised when Henri stops him, quickly putting his spatula in front of him to stop him from going any further, waiting for a second until he’s sure the eggs won’t burn to give Louis his full attention. 

“I wanted to cook for you today. Since you made me dinner and breakfast when you really didn’t have to, I wanted to return the favor,” says Henri, eyes bright with hope though the reminder that Louis had more or less abandoned him sends a lance of guilt through his chest. 

Louis looks away for a moment, but before Henri has time to take it as rejection, Louis nods, chewing a little on his lip. 

“Of course, Henri. I would like that, thank you,” he responds, and the guilt melts away at the delight that shines in Henri’s blue eyes. Louis surprises them both by leaning up to place a quick, thankful kiss on Henri’s cheek, and scrambles away to sit down too quickly to see the stars that grow in them too.

He  _ does _ see Henri place a disbelieving hand over his cheek, and the blinding grin that splits his face, and for a second, Louis wonders if it’s always been so hard to breathe. 

When Henri places their breakfast on the table, there’s a prideful smirk tilting the corners of his mouth, and Louis can admit it’s well deserved when he takes a bite of the delicately folded crepe on his plate. It’s a shame that he can’t handle more than a few bites, stomach turning and twisting until the thought of eating another bite fills him with dread. Henri gives him a curious look when he sets his fork down and while Louis tries to soothe his worry with a smile, he’s afraid it comes out as more of a grimace. 

“Ah, it seems I don’t have much of an appetite this morning, I’m sorry Henri. But I assure you, if the food at your restaurant is at least half this good then I’m sure it must be  _ very _ popular”, Louis assures him, and though Henri’s brows are still tight with concern, the smile he offers is pleased at the praise. 

Louis puts his foot down when Henri tries to wash the dishes by himself, managing to bully him to the side so he has space to dry the dishes Henri hands him. He offers idle commentary on the abysmal weather, hoping it’ll clear up when they finally head outside to the garden, tutting about needing to pick his tomatoes soon, and Henri listens, only occasionally interjecting, and Louis is put under the impression that he’s looking for a breadcrumb of something, and though Louis’s always been good at talking endlessly without saying anything, he opts to give him something small. He mentions his brother again, uses it to tease Henri about the Queen Incident, then barrels on to something else because while Louis can tolerate talking about Joseph, the rest of his family still feels like a sore bruise sometimes, though it’s nowhere near the raw, weeping wound it had been when he’d first left. 

It’s a different sort of raw that he feels when he wakes up from his dreams, because that had felt like an old hurt, the edges faded and brittle where once, the memory of his father had made him feel like the pulsing red edges of a fresh knife wound. Not anymore, but it used to hurt. It’s the phantom memory of pain that keeps him from opening up. 

The dishes done, Louis goes to the window and finds, to his relief, that though the shaded sky hasn’t dispersed, the rain’s stopped and he hopes the pause lasts long enough to get his gardening done. Somehow, Henri convinces him to pull on one of his large, thick sweaters, easily too big for Louis, but it’s warm against the brisk breeze outside (and, admittedly, he finds comfort in Henri’s scent.) Miraculously, his garden hasn’t been drowned out, and while Louis makes work of picking his tomatoes and aubergines, Henri goes to feed the chickens, both of them sharing a nervous look at the lightning they catch flashing in the distance, just a little further off than the slate reflection of the pond. 

“We should head in,” says Henri when he comes back to the garden, worriedly eyeing the pallor on Louis’s face, the dark bruises under his eyes. 

“It’s fine, Henri, I just want to stay out a little longer,” Louis disagrees, pulling himself up- too quickly, he realizes, his vision blurring white for a moment. When color returns, he finds that Henri’s wound his arm around his waist, eyes wide and concerned, face pinched. 

“Yeah, no, that’s it, c’mon you, you’re going to go back to bed, there's no use in making yourself sicker for no reason,” Henri scolds. 

Louis finds himself being led back inside, Henri’s arm still curled around him, though he doesn’t mind. He indulges and leans against Henri’s side, eyes falling close for just a moment (maybe longer), thoughts sticky and thick, pulse throbbing dully at his temple. He parts from Henri when he tries to take him into the bedroom, preferring the couch because his bed always feels too big and hot when he’s sick and to his relief, Henri lets him. He swallows past the raspiness of his throat, trying to swallow the feather-tickle of a cough he can feel starting to grow in his chest. 

“Do you need anything?” Henri asks softly, the cool back of his hand resting lightly on Louis’s forehead. Louis shakes his head, picking up the book he’d left on his coffee table and flipping to the page he’d left dog-eared for later. Henri eyes him disapprovingly, but doesn’t tell him to sleep, murmuring about bringing him some water anyways. 

Louis smiles behind his book; he had seen the fondness swimming in the depths of Henri’s eyes. 

…

None of the curtains are drawn, and it’s late morning now, but stormy clouds turn the light filtering through the windows pale gray, dappled shadows specking the kitchen, a faint wind rustling through the grass outside like an invisible snake. 

Henri pours water from the sink into a glass and drops a few ice cubes in there. Louis’s still making an attempt to read his mystery novel, eyes sleepy behind his glasses and the swell of tenderness that rises in Henri’s throat nearly catches him off-guard. He places the water on the coffee table and accepts the quiet “thank you” Louis gives him. He wants to lean down, press a kiss against his forehead, but he thinks it might be too soon, they still have to talk and he doesn’t want uncertainty to press its sharp little fingers into the bubble of content in his chest. He  _ does _ sweep Louis’s curls away from his face, and he’s delighted by the bright grin he’s rewarded with. 

Then Louis turns to stifle a cough into his shoulder and the worry returns, prickly against Henri’s nerves. 

“I’ll go get you some medicine,” Henri tells him, moving towards the bathroom before Louis has a chance to protest. 

Digging through the cabinets, however, only reveals an empty bottle of cough syrup forgotten behind a new bottle of shampoo, and Henri sighs, wondering if he’ll have to go out to the store to get medicine for Louis. Then he realizes that if he  _ does  _ go to the store, he could pick up some other supplies to take care of Louis with (ingredients with which to make soup!), and the idea appeals to him the more he thinks about it. 

Henri scrambles back into the living room, patting Louis’s shoulder to get his attention and giving him another small smile when his seaglass eyes meet his. 

“You’re out of medicine so I’m going to the store. I’m gonna buy some other stuff, is there anything you want me to get you?” 

Louis ponders the question for a few moments, lips pursing. 

“Would you bring me more tea, please?” he asks softly and Henri gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze, nodding. 

“Yeah, that’s no problem. Try and get some sleep Louis, I’ll be back as soon as I can,” and, taking a quick breath, Henri drops a light kiss on Dega’s forehead, fevered skin warm against his lips. There’s stars in Louis’s eyes when he looks to gauge his reaction and warmth settles in his belly. 

Henri grabs his keys from the row of hooks near the door and takes care to quietly close the door before climbing into his truck and driving away. 

…

Louis can admit, some time after Henri leaves, that he really can’t concentrate on the words in front of him, small black print smearing into each other and exacerbating the heart-beat thump of his headache, his head dipping every few minutes, only to startle up again when he feels the book begin to slip through his fingers. He gives up on reading entirely when the book finally manages to fall on his face, snapping him awake and nearly causing his glass of water to fall with a flailing hand. 

With a sigh, Louis folds the corner of the same page and sets it aside, taking a drink of his water to sooth the low simmer of the fire in his throat, regretting that he had neglected stocking up on medicine earlier. He pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, trying to alleviate the pressure growing behind his eyes, but is unsuccessful, the feeling of wool between his ears growing. Louis tosses a bit on the couch until he finds a semblance of comfort, digging his face into the cushions, his thick blanket curled tightly around his shoulders. He’s growing congested, the urge to cough growing from a tickle to something thick and sticky. 

A few minutes more, and Louis finally falls asleep, just like Henri had wanted him to. 

_ Louis screams.  _

_ The jungle is hot, sticky humidity forming prickly, heavy sweat along his brow, dripping down his neck, and he screams and screams and screams, but no one answers back, one long, eerie note trembling on his tongue. No cicadas chirp back, the wild birds keeping their squawks to themselves and around him is smearing shades of vibrant green and shocks of brown- he’s lost his glasses to the dewy grass, swallowed up by speckles of white baby’s breath, oddly out of place here in this wretched place.  _

_ He screams again, throat scraped raw, panic swarming in his chest, the butterflies squirming there threatening to burst from his mouth in the place of his next scream, and his head pounds and he can’t even remember who’s name he’s supposed to be screaming, only that it’s urgent and he  _ needs _ him, needs him like the air that suddenly doesn’t want to fill his lungs (too many butterflies in there, he thinks hysterically), and he’s only now noticing the sting in his back- _

_ Right. That’s right.  _

_ The guard was whipping him.  _

_ And then he’d stopped, and he was unconscious and Louis had laid very still on the ground, his back singing with pain,  _ burning _ , and his hands shake, coated in blood and- _

_ Louis screams.  _

_ There’s a bubble of elation filling up his chest, his name echoing back at him like a cry for victory.  _

_ And Louis stands there at the edge of the cliff, his smile frozen on his cheeks, hurting, and he thinks he might stand there for years and years and years, vines creeping up his legs, looping around his ankles to keep him in place. He stands there, even as grass grows into the soles of his feet, tickling against his skin, stands there until Louis must be part plant himself, his curls as overgrown and wild as the land around him, blue irises sprouting through the dark locks as if to give them a spot of color and he’s been still for so long, he must be a statue by now. The man drifts away, drifts away, drifts away, and though Louis knows that letting him go meant he’d never see him again, some part of him, the dull pulse of his heart, had thought maybe, if he waited long enough, he would come back to him.  _

_ His face would unblur, and Louis could see his eyes smiling along with his mouth but.  _

_ Louis blinks, and it’s only been a few minutes. Above him, the sun blazes white-gold in the robin’s egg blue sky; his leg throbs, and though the call of the waves is tempting, Louis limps away, shaking away the cobwebs of his fantasy as he hobbles back to his little hut.  _

_ He lies down, and he presses his eyes close for a bit, his throat closing up, and for a moment he thinks that the tears burning up behind them might fall this time. They don’t.  _

_ When he opens them again, he’s on the cement block that had passed as a bed in the barracks of the colony, the threadbare rag of a blanket he’d adopted into a pillow pressed against his cheek. Gentle breath fans across the bridge of his nose.  _

_ The man, he realizes, dry, pink lips slightly parted and Louis wants desperately to see his eyes, to see past the shadow hiding his face from his memory. He wants to know who this ghost is, but the man doesn’t open his eyes, and outside the wind howls, moonlight and a light spray of rain spilling through the little window above their sleeping space.  _

_ It’s odd, Louis thinks, that he can’t hear the snoring of the other prisoners around him, nor feel the cold steel of the cuff around his ankle. He blinks again, and though the man still sleeps in front of him, their location is different. It’s not the drab grays of their midnight prison, the moon having traded places with the sun. But it doesn’t scorch them like it would on the colony’s, calmed as it is by the cool breeze that plays with the man’s short, blond hair. Beneath Louis’s cheek, his blanket’s turned into a little puddle of forget-me-nots, and something about their color, blue as the sky above, stirs something in his chest. He doesn’t flinch when the man moves to cradle his cheek- he thinks he might have been expecting it. He picks a few flowers, and scatters them into Louis’s hair, mouth curved into a tender smile.  _

_ “This is not the end,'' the man says softly, and Louis thinks that sounds quite nice.  _

_ The man’s hand feels heavy and warm against his jaw, calloused fingers stroking his skin, and Louis wants to move closer, wants to burrow into his side, to kiss him. However, when he tries to lay his hand over the man’s, his hand goes through, and he’s touching his own face. Louis’s mouth curves down into a frown, and around him, the colors begin to fade into gray vapor, the image of the man beginning to fade away until it feels like Louis is looking at him without his glasses, a faint blur of color where he had once been.  _

_ He sits up to look around and his stomach swoops, water drenching his feet, blood coating his hands and the boat sways and there’s arms coiled around him and- _

_ “Don’t think about it, Dega,” says the man, and they’re back in Louis’s little hut, the chill of night buffered by the body curled around him.  _

_ “Don’t think about what?” Louis asks tiredly. His hands shake, he thought there had been blood on them. He misses the forget-me-nots.  _

_ “Don’t think about the boat,'' the man whispers in his ear, but Louis’s mind keeps wanting to drift back, like he’s the tide swinging from the comfort of the man’s arms to the strange depths of the boat, something sharp in his palm, blood, bright red, splattered on the faded candy stripes of his uniform.  _

_ He swings back, warm breath on his ear, “stay with me, Louis”, and then he’s drifting away again, dizzy and nauseous and there’s a scream perched just under his chin, begging for release from his clenched jaws.  _

_ It stops abruptly with chapped lips on his, a hand cupped over the nape of his neck, and for a moment, the world melts, the blue of the sky dribbling like condensation on a sweaty champagne bottle into the silver of the choppy sea, the sun like a runny egg yolk leaking over the side of a cerulean plate. There’s another arm wrapped around his waist, and Louis sighs into the kiss, tucking his head under a tall chin when the kiss breaks.  _

_ They’re dancing, he realizes, or some facsimile of it, swaying gently together to music he hears faintly trickling into the back of his head. He thinks it might be a waltz, but it’s been so long since Louis’s last heard music that he can’t be sure.  _

_ His wife had liked waltzes.  _

_ He barely remembers that life anymore, though, and looking at it is like trying to look at the stars through an unfocused telescope, blurred, jewel-bright and frankly unreachable.  _

_ So Louis dances with the man, pale flowers littering their earthy dance floor, and his fingers trace the lines of a butterfly tattoo just beneath his throat, wonders if he pressed his hand there hard enough, if it would stick to his hand, and he too could have some of his bravery. Louis laughs at his own silly thought, feels the vibration of the man laughing along with him. Above them, the stars wink, but Louis doesn’t see. He’s tucked himself back into the man’s shoulder.  _

_ … _

Henri hadn’t noticed it before. 

Louis Dega’s little home in the far countryside with its golden skies and emerald grass and sapphire flowers is a dream, a little solitary ship sailing on a seaglass ocean, and it feels so far away in the sharp lights of the store, the fluorescent white bulbs searing Henri’s eyes after all the time spent in the soft yellow of Dega’s lamps. 

The basket feels heavy on the crook of his arm, though it’s not all that full and he blinks at the rows and rows of tea on the shelf, trying to look for Louis’s favorite. In his pocket, his phone buzzes and when Henri fishes it out, he finds that it’s Nenette calling him. 

“Did Julot burn the restaurant down?” he greets, sticking the phone between ear and shoulder so he can examine two boxes of tea, different brands but that flavor that Louis likes, just in case he can’t find the right one. 

“No? Well okay, he burned a pan a few days ago but he replaced it, but I didn’t call you about that”, Nenette answers, already used to his non sequiturs and from the sound of quiet barking on the other end, her dog, Henri wonders if she’s making herself lunch. 

“Just wanted to say hi, then”, Henri hums, eyes brightening when they finally land on Louis’s tea. 

“I dunno, I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have bothered,'' says Nenette, clearly teasing, “what are you up to anyways? Planning on coming home soon?”

Henri shrugs, though he knows she can’t see it, moving on to look for ingredients for the soup he’s going to cook for Louis before he makes him take the medicine stocked up in his little basket. 

“Not really, no. I’m- see the man who’s hosting me at the moment’s fallen ill so I’m going to stay a little bit longer to look after him.” Henri’s voice grows soft, a smile flicking at the corner of his mouth. “He’s been very kind to me.”

Nenette must pick up something in the tone of his voice because she’s quiet for a moment before sighing out a quiet, “oh, Henri.”

He can’t, he can’t take that tone from her, that warns him that he’s in for heartbreak, so Henri swallows and though they haven’t really talked at all (he doesn’t want to, all of a sudden), he says, “It was good to hear your voice Nenette, but I’ve got to get going. It’s a long drive back to the house.” 

She doesn’t say anything again, but then she murmurs goodbye and Henri stares down at the phone with a frown. He misses her. He misses his restaurant and Julot and his parents, even. But he’s not ready to go back. He isn’t ready to give up Louis’s strange little dream of a life. 

He isn’t ready to give up Louis. 

…

Louis is still asleep when Henri returns, limbs tangled in swathes of blanket and he feels concern bubble in his chest at the soft wheeze-snores that he emits. 

He doesn’t seem all the way awake when Henri makes him take some of the medicine, and he’s out like a light again in no time, nuzzling into his pillow with a soft sigh. Henri grins, something small and sweet, and runs a hand through his hair before beginning to pack away his purchases and turning off all the lights again before picking a book off Louis’s shelf and moving back into his room. 

Outside, the rain patters on. Otherwise, it’s quiet save for the soft flip of pages every few minutes. 

Contentment settles heavy and warm over Henri’s shoulders, and yes, he was happy in the city, he had everything he could ever want but- this feels like a different sort of happiness. Without Louis, it would be far too lonely, and he doesn’t know how Louis’s spent five years all by himself out here, but with him. Henri could see himself-  _ has _ seen himself enjoy it with him. Something falls out of the book, and Henri blinks at the little, dried pressed flower sitting in the palm of his hand. The blue of its fragile leaves is faded, but he thinks he's seen the flower in little clusters in Louis's garden. His mouth tilts into a grin. 

He sets it to the side and goes back to reading, wondering if he’d be able to find anymore forgotten flowers in Louis’s books. 

_ Papi steps off the boat and finds himself with one foot in sea and one on land, warm sand sticking to the bottom of his foot (where are his boots?) and his frown deepens when he finds that there is no one around.  _

_ He’d thought- why would he think that there would be anyone else around?  _

_ Papi shakes his head and looks around at the vast expanse of pale sand, and his breath stutters when he sees a figure not far away, familiar, small, vivid and dark against the light grains that make up the beach. He means to call his name, and he thinks he must because the figure turns to face him, but Papi doesn’t remember saying it, like a lyric skipped over on a record player.  _

_ “Papi,” the man says, voice soft, and the sharp, thoughtful expression on his face softens, tugging at Papi’s chest, the strings of his heart turning him into a puppet. _

_ In a heartbeat, they’re in each others arms, no wait, Papi’s arm is wrapped around the other man’s waist, his hand on Papi’s shoulder, their other hands locked together. His faded uniform bleeds color, vibrant red and vivid white, the buttons done up all the wait to his throat, a little neat bowtie under his collar. The mime, Papi realizes, looking into eyes so dark, the green looks almost black, long white lashes fluttering to rest on painted cheeks, little black tear drops leaking onto his face. The cotton of his white gloves are soft and Papi places a kiss against his knuckles before they begin to dance.  _

_ Papi isn’t wearing his uniform anymore, black silken waistcoat reflecting the red lights around them, his long blond hair slicked back, not the choppy haircut from the prison. Around them, other couples dance, but Papi doesn’t look away from those stormy green eyes, his painted mouth, temptation, and he leans down to kiss him- except he can’t.  _

_ He blinks, and around him, the red light shivers and shakes, like it’s a current pulling him away and his partner isn’t so close anymore. He blinks again, and there’s an ocean between them, and he wonders how the mime can still smile when he’s being swallowed by the earth, coils of vines and plants curled around his stiff limbs, his once coiffed hair turned wild with curls and Papi screams for him, urging the red waves to take him back, to bring him back to his fantasy.  _

_ The waves do not listen, and Papi drifts until the mime disappears.  _

_ He’s free. He wanted this, Papi reminds himself, this is what he wanted. This is what they wanted.  _

_ … _

Louis comes to awareness one sense at a time, and all of them grumble at him that he should very much turn them back off. He sniffles, his throat thick, his pulse thrumming sluggishly in his temple. There’s a sour taste in his mouth, like he drank something while he was asleep though he doesn’t know what it could have been. Sifting through his memories doesn’t reveal much of anything, so he gives up trying to figure out what it was and elects to go to the bathroom before going back to sleep. 

He doesn’t feel all that rested, and even after he puts his glasses on, he feels like he’s viewing the world from below murky water. His legs tremble when he stands and a wave of dizziness almost makes him sit back down, a full cough struggling in his dry mouth. 

Then he pauses, realizes that something had woken him, and he frowns, wondering what it could have been. Henri, maybe? Louis stands still, head tilted, though his legs are growing impatient with him to either move or sit back down. He’s getting ready to just go to the bathroom when he hears it- the thing that had woken him up. 

Someone’s knocking on his door. 

Louis frowns, wondering if it could be Henri back from the store, but no, Henri has the keys, he wouldn’t need Louis to let him in. It could be one of his friends, then, he reasons, or someone else who’s gotten lost or needs instructions to the nearest town because he can’t think of anyone else who could be knocking at his door at this time. 

Louis stumbles to the door, still wobbly on his feet, and whoever’s on the other side knocks another three times before he manages to pull the door open. When he does, the clamminess of his hands has nothing to do with his illness, and he feels like the air’s been punched out of his lungs. His jaw goes slack, eyes so wide he fears they might fall out of their sockets. 

“Louis,'' smiles the man on the other side of the door, his dark hair smoothed back, dressed poshly in a black, cashmere sweater and charcoal slacks, a heavy navy coat thrown over his shoulders to protect him from the rain. His green-blue eyes twinkle faintly, as they’ve always done and Louis can see where new freckles sprinkle the bridge of his nose. 

Louis swallows, closing his mouth with a click. 

“Joseph”, he greets back, quiet. 

They seem to be at a standoff, Joseph’s bright white smile refusing to fade though his eyes whisper doubt at the person in front of him- he’s not the same Louis that had left five years ago, hardly looks like him anymore though Joseph hardly seems to have changed at all. 

“Are you going to let me in?” 

Louis draws in a sharp breath, not sure what to say because he  _ doesn’t  _ want to let him in, doesn’t want the presence of his past to taint the purity of his present. He leans against the doorway, commiting to a frown, his arms crossed around his chest and he hopes, desperately, that Joseph doesn’t make his headache any worse than it already is. He swallows again, though this time it’s to smooth the dryness of his throat. 

“What are you doing here, Joseph? I haven’t seen you in years, we haven’t talked, and now you’re just. Here?”

If he sounds incredulous, it’s because he  _ is _ , because it doesn’t make sense for Joseph to be standing here, away from his fancy apartment and his socialite friends and their parents’ money. He looks out of place here in a way that Henri hadn’t and though Louis had once gotten along best with his brother, distance has put a different perspective on what he had viewed as his only good relationship back then. 

Joseph rolls his eyes as if he thinks Louis’s being dramatic, as if all of that were irrelevant. 

“That’s exactly why I’m here,'' he says, crossing his arms to mirror Louis’s position, “it’s been five years. Don’t you think your little temper tantrum’s lasted long enough? C’mon Louis, let's go home. I’m sure you miss it, you know. Sleeping in your nice soft bed, having everyone at your beck and call, and- surely you miss mom. She misses you, you know. She cried for  _ weeks _ after you left, you broke her heart.” Joseph’s eyes go soft and he uncrosses his hand to place it on Louis’s shoulder, and his voice gentles. “ _ I’ve _ missed you, Louis. 

God. 

_ God.  _

His head throbs and he nearly chews through his cheek, trying not to scream. He wouldn’t have been able to see it before, too naive, so desperate for someone to love him, but Louis sees it now, the manipulation that Joseph wraps around every word, calculated to guilt him into leaving. Just as he’d always guilted him into staying. There’s a spark of satisfaction when the look on Joseph’s face falters, then falls altogether when Louis nudges his hand off his shoulder, and  _ god _ he doesn’t remember the last time he felt this angry. This  _ insulted.  _

“I’m not going back. That’s not home to me,” he says, measured. 

“Louis-”, Joseph starts, voice hardening, swinging for a different tactic but Louis shakes his head at him, clenching his hands to keep them from shaking. 

“No, Joseph. I don’t want to go back. This isn’t a tantrum, and this isn’t temporary. When I left, it’s because I was done. I was done with our parents and I was done with that life and I was done with being unhappy. 

If you don’t understand  _ why _ I was unhappy then, then I don’t need to explain my reasons to you.” 

His shoulders slump and he feels so, so tired. He’d loved his brother. He still has so many memories he genuinely enjoys of him, but they’re soured and he wants him to go away. He just wants to be alone again, no one can hurt him if he’s alone. 

“Leave.” 

Joseph’s lips go thin, and there’s disappointment in his eyes, though whether it’s because he really wanted Louis to come home or because he couldn’t trick him back, he doesn’t know. He starts to open his mouth to say something else and Louis readies himself to refute him, but they’re interrupted by a quiet, sleepy voice from inside the house, and Louis turns, surprised to see Henri slipping out of his room. Oh. Henri hadn’t woken him when he got back, then. 

“Who’s that?” Joseph asks, eyebrows furrowed, and Louis allows a genuine smile to slip on his face, softening at the look of confusion Henri gives to his brother. 

“That’s my friend, Henri.”

He turns back to Joseph, and his expression turns serious again. 

“Joseph.”

Joseph looks between him and Henri, folding away his emotions until there’s nothing but blankness on his face, lips pressed thin. Something like understanding crosses his eyes. He leaves quietly, not bothering to say goodbye. 

“Who was that?” asks Henri when Louis closes the door, shuffling into the kitchen to collapse in one of the chairs. 

“That was my brother,'' Louis says shortly, eyes drooping close, and he’s relieved when Henri doesn’t ask anything more, instead puttering around the kitchen and pulling things out of the cabinets. 

“When did you get back?” Exhaustion slurs his words, but he doesn’t want to go back to sleep, his throat aching, a memory of throwing up bloody blossoms pressing behind his eyes. 

"’Bout an hour ago. I made you take something when I got back, you don’t remember?”

Louis shakes his head, though it does make the odd taste in his mouth he’d woken up with make sense. 

Henri goes back to placing ingredients on the table, and Louis sighs happily when he turns off the kitchen light, claiming that the light from outside is plenty to go by. Louis hardly listens, his eyes keep drooping and every time he falls into some semblance of a doze, he forces himself back up, not eager to revisit his dreams, to wake up with the hollowness of missing someone who’s face he can’t even see, butterflies, so many butterflies swarming around him. But talking to Joseph’s taken everything out of him and he keeps  _ remembering _ , dreams blurring with reality in his head, his father angry, feelings of fear, someone drawing him close, warm, safe. 

“Why don’t we take you to bed? It’ll take a little bit for the soup to be ready and it wouldn’t hurt for you to rest in your own bedroom for once”, Henri murmurs in his ear, trying to hold him up. 

Louis’s head flops onto his chest, eyes pressed close and- and this reminds him of something, a trembling hand reaching for Henri’s collar bone, disappointment pressing like an anchor into his chest because there’s something  _ missing _ , a puzzle piece, a word needed to complete the riddle itching against his skin. 

“Papillon”, he mutters, tongue feeling thick and Henri goes very still. 

“Dega”, he breathes, “what did you say?”

Looking up at him, Louis wonders if the medicine was more potent than anticipated because he feels like he’s seeing the man in his dreams, except a little to the left, Henri and the man’s silhouettes not quite lining up- the man’s hair is short and choppy, Henri’s hair is longer, the man has a blond shadow gathering on his jaw, Henri’s clean shaven, and there’s no, there’s no-

“Papillon”, Louis repeats.

Henri looks at him with wide eyes, mouth opening, then closing, as if trying to figure something out. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

Louis laughs, startled at the question, pressing his knuckles to his mouth.

“You shouldn’t, I’m sick-”

“I, I want to, Dega, can I-”

Louis leans up, and Henri leans down and the kiss is slow and it’s warm, and when they pull apart, Henri and the man have finally clicked together and that- Louis doesn’t know why he’s crying, but that’s his face. The shadow is gone and blue eyes blink at him. He thinks it might be the fever crumbling his brain so that he’s seeing things, but Henri’s hold on him suddenly feels so much more tight. 

“Do you remember?” Henri asks, his voice tight, like the words are being squeezed from his throat and Louis wonders what he means, what he’s looking for, head clouded by the fire of his fever. 

“ _ Louis _ ”, he says urgently, and he’s crying too, and Louis’s brain is stretching like a rubber band and he wonders how much longer it would take before it snaps, but he sees the man, except he’s real and he’s Henri and he’s holding him like he’s a ghost, he always holds him like he’s a ghost, flickering from his sight and-

He coughs. 

The pieces align, and Louis’s memories and dreams and dream-memories have finally decided to make sense. 

“Hi Papi”, he sobs, smiling so widely it makes his cheeks hurt.

“You have your garden”, Hen- Papi gasps in wonder, like it’s 1930 and they escaped together and they’ve only just met up again. 

“Yeah,” whispers Louis, “I did.”


	5. But Not With Haste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They come together at last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woops, i didn't mean to take so long but nothin like quarantine and a night shift job to finish up a fic! I'm actually very happy, I've never actually finished a fic all the way through before!!   
> Also warning for my first attempt at smut, it's probably very clumsy but I tried my best dsgghgh

There’s something odd, Louis thinks, about having two lifetimes of memories melt together into one wildly confusing,dizzying whorl of color and emotion. 

There’s a little noise caught in his throat, his head pulses, and he feels Henri’s (Papi’s?) arms wrap around his waist, his knees weak and jelly-like. He feels overly warm still, the fever shoving its little needle hands under his skin to boil his blood.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this”, Henri chuckles, hefting Louis into his arms. 

His arms may as well settle permanently around Louis’ waist for all the times they’ve found a home there, a familiar weight, a comforting warmth and Louis curls into the touch, a flower seeking the sun. He doesn’t let go when Henri tries to drop him onto the couch, pulls him close, doesn’t want to deny his touch anymore and he nearly wants to cry when Henri settles down with him, the rough edges of the hole in his chest smoothing away away, growing smaller, and there’s the sun of Henri’s golden hair in his fingers, the itch of his stubble against his skin, and his eyes- Louis had never been able to see The Man’s eyes. 

He hadn’t realized they’d be the same color as the blue,  _ blue _ sea, azure, forget-me-not (how could he have ever forgotten), and he doesn’t know if the tightness in his chest is from the illness or the heartache. 

“Go to sleep, Dega. I’ll be right here”, Henri murmurs, brushing away his curls, his hand lingering on his cheek.

“Please, call me Louis.”

* * *

_ Two birds titter softly on the roof, hop, hop hopping across the flimsy shingles, little black eyes bouncing from the crystalline sea to the emerald treeline, little heads tilting this way and that. One’s wings flutters, and it dives towards the sea, cawing for the other to follow. The sea is too far, the other bird thinks, and flies instead toward the vibrant green of the jungle, jewel bright leaves swallowing the gray of its feathers.  _

_ Louis watches them go, wishes he had wings like them, the choice to choose where to fly. He could be the birdie that Celier thinks he is, bird bones hollow, fragile, but strong enough for him to glide on the wind, to make it his current like Papi wants to take to the water. Maybe then, Louis might believe that he’ll make it out alive.  _

_ “I’ll protect you”, says Papi, as if reading his thoughts, tone annoyed like he knows that Louis is doubting him again.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ “I know you will”, soothes Louis genuinely. As long as he has the money, Papi will protect him.  _

_ “Then stop looking like that”, he’s told irritably, and Louis settles for rolling his eyes because he doesn’t know what Papi means.  _

_ (Henri sees the sky in Dega’s eyes, sees something he can’t have, his hand reaching out but unable to touch, he’s too far away, he can’t he’s so far, freedom is so far-) _ _   
_ _   
_ _ (Louis sees the sea in Papi’s eyes, turbulent, cold uncaring, except when he dips his hands in the waters, they’ve been sunwarmed, they’re crystal clear, they can’t hide anything from him, and he’s drowned by them, he’s overwhelmed by his touch, it’s too much, too much-) _

_ Dega is a man unaccustomed to blood, but not to pain.  _

_ Henri sees the sick look that turns Dega’s face green when Julot’s blood stains through the bag, onto his clothes, turning the alternating red and white of his uniform into a solid red splotch, and there’s a sort of dizzy helplessness to his eyes at the sight of it. It’s the sort of thing that comes with realizing just how little control he has over his life, just how much death surrounds him. He’s holding a dead body, its blood is on his hands, inking them with red and he’s sick with it, he can’t- it’s too much for him. And Henri understands, okay, he doesn’t want to die an anonymous criminal (for something he didn’t even do!) stuffed headless in a bag to be fed to the fucking sharks.  _

_ But then Henri must be more desensitized because it doesn’t phase him as much as it phases Dega, and he’d known Julot more Dega had, but he doesn’t feel quite so sick as Dega seems to.  _

_ Dega barely reacts to the whipping, and somehow  _ that’s  _ what unsettles his stomach, and he’s supposed to protect him, he has to protect him-! _

_ Henri is alone in the red lights of Moulin Rouge. There’s a bright red stain on his otherwise neat white shirt, and he wonders when he spilt so much wine on himself, the shift of color violent from the pure white of his shirt to the vivid red of the wine. It feels a little too thick to be wine though, and his brow wrinkles in confusion because what- what else could it be? _

_   
_ _ Papi’s alone in the dark corner of his cell, and he’s holding his little mime in his arms, sobbing as softly as he can but finding it difficult to stifle his grief. His mime’s green eyes look like little black holes in his face in the dark shadows of the cell, face ashen beneath the white of the mask, the black of his mouth smudged crudely across his face, neat sleek hair haloing his face in a ring of wild brown curls, and his neck- his neck is broken, and Papi doesn’t know what to do, he needs, he  _ needs him  _ he doesn’t know how to live without him yet, the black wealth of fear and loneliness that lives in his chest bubbling up, consuming his heart like a wolf would a lamb and it spills out, too much to contain, clearing tracks down his dirtied face, the only trace of cleanliness in this godforsaken place.  _

_ “Why are you crying, Papi”, asks Dega when he wakes him up, big eyes full of gentle concern and Papi wants to hold him, touches his cheek to feel the warmth of him, reminds himself that the sun glinting off Dega’s teeth is enough to chase the eager shadows coiled in the corners of his mind where he's pressed the silence of solitary into. Their cold little fingers cannot streak across his weakened body when Dega is pressed against him, firebrand hot, gentle eyelashes closed against the windows of his brilliant, unfathomable eyes. He kisses Dega’s temple, buries his face in the nape of his neck and breathes in earth and sweat and imagines he can still smell the faint scent of Dega’s cologne, the lingering afterimage of where they came from and who they used to be.  _

_ There’s a gulf between them, virulent waves corroding at the patches of rocky shore that keeps them from drowning. Louis, in his sleek, form-fitting, burgundy suit hops back, a frightened rabbit, hair already flattened with product further squashed down with the force of the spray, his glasses clouded with it.  _

_ Papi watches impassively as that little creature is engulfed by the waves. He’d expected nothing more from such a pampered thing, and now he needs to move on, find another way off this rock- except. Except that when he turns around, Louis’ island is closer, and he’s looking at Papi with such a sharp look of defiance, hardly looking like the same man who had been swallowed up by the waves. He’s not really a man though, not this version of him that looks all of thirteen years old, maybe younger, and beneath the defiance is a child’s fear, a bruise on the high bone of his cheek, his lip split and bleeding, tiny hands curled into angry little fists, but they’re not his weapons. He takes the blows and despite his fragile frame, doesn’t let them shatter him, and as he grows, it’s his silver tongue that becomes his blade of choice, quicksilver and clever, eyes gleaming with intelligence.  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ The grown up version of that boy stares back at him, mouth tinged red with the taste of blood, because he has found the force of his teeth as effective as the sword of his words.  _

_ And Papi watches, fascinated, as Louis turns around, presenting his scarred back to him, the bones beneath the sun-browned skin shifting, crackling, blood welling out as they begin to jut through, and there’s a scream trapped in Papi’s throat, caged back by his tongue. His silent horror lances into disbelief when the bones begin to grow feathers, and they grow into these great black things, dripping with blood, until Louis shakes them out, the base feathers fluffing into a deep blue.  _

_ A swallow, Papi thinks.  _

_ Louis turns his head, one pale eye watching him from over his shoulder, and he flies away, leaving Henri alone on his stone island, not once looking back.  _

* * *

Henri’s eyes snap open, and he comes to with a gasp, and he’s sure that if not for the body on top of his, he’d have snapped up. He’s never remembered a dream in such vivid detail, every facet of this half-imagined world burned into the back of his eyelids. 

“Dega”, he says softly, touching the sleeping man’s curls. He wonders why his dreams remain so incoherent when he’s already regained his memories of that time.   
  
_ It’s the nature of dreams,  _ answers the funny little voice in his head that he now realizes is the voice of his mime, and that- well he supposes it makes sense, and honestly, what other explanation does he have?

The image of Dega and his wings and his flight away from him sticks in his mind. Is that what Dega had felt like when Papi had thrown himself off the cliff? Had he felt abandoned and alone, left in the roiling hands of the tide, powerless to do anything but accept his fate? Henri had felt elated to have properly escaped, but his thoughts had often wandered to the man he’d loved, had seen him in his dreams, still waiting for him on the island, his smile patient and kind because he’d wait for years and years and years as long as Henri came back for him. He’s frozen in time from that last time Papi had seen him, screaming himself hoarse in celebration, silhouetted, a brown and red speck in the brilliant blue of the sky. 

In his arms, Louis groans softly, and his blue eyes flicker open, long dark eyelashes fanning across his cheeks. 

“You think too loudly”, he grumbles, burying his face in Henri’ throat, warm breath puffing against Henri’s sensitive skin, skinny arms wrapping around Henri’s waist.    
  
“Do I now?” asks Papi, very amused (very amazed, too, because they have this opportunity to blend together without fear, without restraint). “Last I checked, you were the overthinker.”   


“Being paranoid over surviving in that prison doesn’t make me an overthinker, it makes me smart”, Louis retorts, slightly tart, mostly sleepy.    
  
“You had me to protect you. Not just for the money”, Henri argues quietly, scraping his nails over Louis’ scalp and enjoying the near purring noise it elicits. Louis makes a quiet noise of agreement. 

“I know that now, but I didn’t back then. And you weren’t planning on taking me with you, so I had to come up with something, and quick, because the lord knows I’m nowhere near as strong as you.”

“But you made it through two years on French Guiana without me, and you made it through Devil’s Island and  _ thrived _ -”   
  
“Henri.”

Louis’ eyes reflect agony like mirrors, and it’s all the reminder that Henri needs that Louis’ position as bookkeeper did not come easy, and nor were his two years devoid of Henri’s protection lacking in suffering. 

“I’m sorry”, Henri murmurs, stroking a thumb down Louis’ sharp cheek. 

“It’s alright”, says Louis with a small smile, “I’ve always been pretty good at taking a punch.”

They grow quiet after that, soaking in the moonlight that filters in through the yellow curtains, not quite sleeping, but not very awake either, Louis’ head resting on Henri’s chest, riding the rise and fall of his lungs. Henri indulges in the feeling of Louis’ tiny waist in his arms, fingers mapping along the warm skin of bony hip, and he realizes as he rubs circles into Louis’ back, he doesn’t feel the sharp rising of scars, the skin beneath his fingertips smooth and unblemished. All they really have of their pasts is their memories and their love, then. 

* * *

Louis’ fever is gone by the time morning comes round again, and though Henri still flutters around him with worry, he seems mostly fine, his cough settled into something less severe. 

Their routine doesn’t change much, not really. They cook in the morning, tend to the garden and the chickens and in between they kiss, they take their time because they can, because there’s no one to hurt them for it. They aren’t forced into the dark crevices between the barracks, determined to hide a thing that has no right to bloom in a place of so much violence, and at the time, it had been an awful, hair-brained idea to entertain, but in a different time and a different place (like afternoon, with sun spilling golden onto the wooden floor in Louis’ kitchen), they could be as unsubtle as they want. 

There’s a proper bed now too. 

It’s soft and cushy, nothing like the slab of concrete that had barely served as a place to sit let alone a place to sleep, the cotton sheets holding in heat better than the scratchy square of fabric the warden had dared to call blankets. 

“You’re  _ strong _ ”, Louis purrs against Henri’s mouth, slender legs squeezing around Henri’s waist, and Henri groans, grinding Louis against the wall, tracing old kisses along his throat and nipping at the spot just beneath his jaw.

“You think so?” he hums, not giving Louis the time to answer before pressing their mouths together again, swallowing up the little noises that Louis offers him, feels the nip of Louis’ perfect teeth. 

Dropping Louis on the bed, seeing him sprawled there, open and trusting and loving, eyes brighter than flame, it makes Henri’s breath catch in his throat and it’s real, this is all real, he gets to have this this time without the constant threat of death hanging over them, without the worry that someone will see what they have and try to take it from him. There’s no stipulations to his happiness this time. Louis watches with rapt attention as Henri slowly unbuttons his shirt, dark blue fabric slipping from his broad, pale shoulders. He lets Henri pull off his own shirt, raising his hands above his head and letting them fall around Henri’s neck when the shirt is gone, eyes automatically dropping to his collarbones, where the old inky butterfly had been, and like Louis’ old scars, it’s gone, a mere memory. 

It doesn’t take long for the rest of their clothes to follow and they take a moment to remap old territories, marking off what’s the same, tracing around what’s different until they’ve had their fill, Henri settling between Louis’ legs, warm hands smoothing down his thighs, finding themselves on the jut of his hips. He leans down to share a sloppy kiss and Louis traps him there with his arms again, holding on like he’s afraid that if he lets go, Henri might drift away from him again. 

“‘M not goin anywhere”, says Henri when they part, like he can hear Louis’ thoughts.    
  
Louis sighs, releases Henri so he can go lower, mouth slowly tasting skin as he trails down to Louis’ groin. He pauses at his chest, licks at sensitive nipples, plays with one with rough fingers and keeps his palm pressed over it even after his mouth moves on, tongue lapping at salty sweat. Louis’ waist is especially enticing for his teeth, and Henri bites hard enough to draw a low sonorous moan from Louis, enjoying it so much he decides to bite out a few others. Louis’ dick is a familiar flavor, hard in the grasp of his hand and Louis’ writhing against the sheets, sweaty and flushed, begging in quiet tones (like he had on Devil’s Island, with Henri’s encouragement. He couldn’t make so much noise on French Guiana.) 

  
“You can be louder if you want”, sighs Henri as he reaches for the lube they’d set aside for this, peppering Louis’ temple with soft kisses, feeling him reciprocate on his cheek, the sound of his name falling from Louis’ swollen lips like a prayer, beseeching some higher power, or maybe just beseeching Henri. 

Henri lathers his hands, carefully prodding at Louis’ entrance, exhaling at the warmth of it, and he takes him into his mouth again, salty precum tingling on his tongue. One finger isn’t nearly enough to stretch Louis’ hole, so he slowly adds another, squeezing his eyes shut at the tightness, and when he begins to move them, scissoring, his tongue lapping at Louis’ head, Louis’  _ mewls,  _ loud and plaintive and the noise goes straight to Henri’s groin, warmth bleeding down down down until he’s just as aroused as Louis. 

  
“God, you take forever”, Louis whines, interrupted by his own squeak when Henri slaps the side of his ass. And Henri decides he likes that noise, because he does it two more times, soothing the sting of it with his hand, amused by the way Louis squirms impatiently. 

“I like taking my time”, Henri hums, but eventually he pops his mouth off of Louis’ dick, sitting up to admire the mess of him. They could do anything together, but Henri wants to be gentle, simple tonight. They can be rough and experiment later, when the newness of being together again has worn off and he can pin Louis down like he probably wants Henri to because Louis likes to be manhandled and Henri doesn’t mind manhandling him. 

He stretches Louis a little more until the channel feels appropriately slick, and then he rolls on a condom, lathering his dick in lube, shuddering at the cold feeling of it. Henri lines himself up with Louis’ entrance, entering slowly and stopping at every gasp though he can feel the heat of Louis’ glare every time he does. He can’t help it, and wants this to be enjoyable for them both. He bottoms out, and Louis groans, writhing to get Henri going because Henri’s stopped to give him time to adjust, but he doesn’t need it and he just wants Henri to-

_ Oh.  _

Louis gasps, his insides squeezing pleasantly around Henri’s dick, and Henri savors that moment before moving again, his pace slow but rhythmic, thrusting  _ just so _ until Louis’ undeniable cry of pleasure cascades around his ears, eager hands trying to pull his closer, blunt nails scratching up the skin of his back, curling in with every burst of stars that explodes behind his eyes, Henri’s grunts whispering against his skin. A slick hand wraps against his dick again, pumping, teeth on the sensitive junction between neck and shoulders and it’s so much, his throat’s raw with the scratch of his screams, his toes curling and flexing. 

“You sound so beautiful”, Henri gasps between bites, voice a low, breathy growl, and his thrusts become rougher, less controlled, but it’s exactly what Louis wants (needs), the weight of Henri’s body pressing him down into the bed, heavy and familiar. He’s devoured by the moment, keening, whimpering,  _ wanting _ . 

It’s Louis who comes first, white, sticky release splattering against their bellies, warm against already heated skin, and Henri follows a minute after, nearly flattening Louis when he collapses on top of him. They rest, and it’s Henri who forces himself up, slipping out of Louis with a quiet groan. He tosses the soiled condom in the little trashcan and stumbles to the bathroom, bringing a warm, wet rag to clean the both of them up. Louis looks up at him with sleepy, sated eyes, blue and bright and grateful. 

“Thank you”, he rasps. Henri shakes his head, crawling on the bed next to him, pulling a blanket off the floor to fold over them. 

“I love you”, Henri corrects, and Louis nods in agreement, tucking himself under Henri’s arm so they can both fall asleep.

* * *

The stars wink at them, glossy silver moonlight reflecting in their eyes, illuminating the sharp curve of Louis’ cheek, the long line of Henri’s nose. The pond licks at their toes, cold and black, freckled with stars that shiver in it’s gentle waves, generated by a faint breeze. Louis' head rests on Henri’s shoulder, fluffy curls tickling his jaw, his entire body pressed into Henri’s side, firebrand hot, made of sharp elbows and skinny ribs, but altogether soft and sweet. 

“It looked like this when I died”, Louis murmurs. 

His eyes are far away, seeing different stars, a different night, shivering from the bite of a much colder wind, his blunt nails digging into Henri’s skin. It’s a calm memory, but a terrifying one, exhaustion turning his limbs to lead, his knees turning to jelly, the rough grasses of Devil’s Island caressing his cheek. Louis’s surprised he can remember his death so clearly, when he’s sure he’d been wracked with fever at the time. He had cried, he remembers, silent tears dripping into the dry earth, and he had whispered, well he can’t remember that part so well. Except for one thing. 

“I asked for you. I imagined you there with me, I think.”

Henri’s arm tightens around him, soft breath blowing across his hair. 

“Do you know how long it was, after I left?” he asks softly, then immediately regrets it. If Louis had lived long, he would have been alone and half mad, but… Henri can’t bear to think of his dying so soon after he’d left. 

  
Louis shrugs, large reflective eyes seeming like the night sky themselves, dark and fathomless and blue, little silver stars dotting from black pupil to navy iris.    
  
“I lost my place a little after you left- fell a bit into a depression and I don’t know how many days I lost… perhaps a month I think.” The noise that rattles in Heni’s throat is a tragic, quiet thing, arm squeezing around Louis. “Don’t be sad, Papi, we both know I was already sick.”

Henri’s voice is mournful when he says, “You looked so lively. You felt more alive then I did.”

They grow quiet again, and Henri thinks of his little mime companion, who had graced his dreams one last time as he had died, black lips and dark eyes, painted face ghostly, familiar, grinning as he always does, little teardrops on his cheeks. But he hadn’t been alone then, people whose faces and names flutter like birds in his mind had been there with him, and had held his hand. He’d died in a bed, glazed eyes staring up at the ceiling and feeling like a voyeur in his own body, observing the grief of people he no longer knew. 

He’s lived a long life, he thinks. Last time at least, despite the odds, despite the threat of Castili, French Guiana, his seven years of solitary. Despite Devil’s Island and it’s treacherous waters. Louis, he thinks, has lived his life trapped in a bird cage. A pretty thing, a broken thing, an awful bloody, fragile thing and Henri had loved him so fiercely he’d been afraid he’d shatter him with the force of it. 

He’d been a fool to think that Louis was ever as weak as he thought him to be. He knows better now, knows to look past the pretty exterior, to the strong, fierce will beneath, someone capable of matching Papi if not in power than in wit, in determination. If Dega’s love is water, nourishing, soothing, destructive, consuming, then Papi’s is fire, warm, protective, burning, jealous and he does, love him that is, he loves him so much and he knows Dega loves him too. 

Above them, the stars twinkle and the wind sings. Henri wraps Louis in his arms and urges him back inside, tangled tightly together. 

They don’t worry about their dreams. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's the list of songs that Greatly inspired this story!  
> -Not With Haste by Mumford and Sons  
> -A Girl in the Valley from Secret Garden  
> -Two Slow Dancers by Mitski  
> -Home by Mumford and Sons  
> -Roll Away Your Stone by Mumford and Sons  
> -Sigh No More by Mumford and Sons  
> -Work Song by Hozier  
> -Like Real People Do by Hozier


End file.
